


Dilemmas of the Depths

by GoodMorningMoon



Series: Mysterious Tales of the Strange and Uncanny [6]
Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Blood, Canadian National Exhibition, Edwardian Period, F/M, Gen, Historical, Male Friendship, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Original Character(s), Romance, Self-Reflection, Some Humor, Toronto, lost city of atlantis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28187667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodMorningMoon/pseuds/GoodMorningMoon
Summary: Back from Paris, George wants to enjoy the annual Canadian National Exhibition with his sweetheart, but duty calls. The latest column in the Telegraph has piqued great interest in the Lost City of Atlantis, interest that may have led to a murder. Meanwhile George must wrangle an excitable young constable whose path has crossed his before, and sort things out with Nina after an unfortunate incident with a knife.
Relationships: George Crabtree & OC, George Crabtree & William Murdoch, Nina Bloom/George Crabtree
Series: Mysterious Tales of the Strange and Uncanny [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576291
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted on ff.net. Please don't post elsewhere. 
> 
> This one has taken about a year, and it got big. Thanks to RG for reading an early draft. A lot has been going on. (Look for Julia's teal sweater in 14x08. I made it, as well as the knitted lace cuffs on Nomi and Violet at the end of the season. And if you want to help make a charity quilt out of scraps from the actual MM sewing room, check out @themurdochquilt on IG. Murdoch Mysteries has been such a ray of light for me during 2020.) 
> 
> George Stewart is an original character from my story _Out of the Woods_ , but you shouldn't need to read that one to have a sense of him. He might show up later, too. I wanted a different kind of foil for George while he's seconded to another station house for a few days.
> 
> As always, warmest thanks to Shaftesbury Films, which owns all the characters. I just play with them.
> 
> Once this is posted, I have to go read what others have been writing! There's not a lot of room in my brain these days, and I'm so far behind. Feedback always more than welcome. Thanks for reading.

**September 1, 1905, Station House 4 bullpen, 10:00am**

“Do you think he’s seen it?”

“Seen what, George?” Higgins leaned back in his desk chair, looking smug. He had become even more insufferable since he had begun courting Miss Newsome.

“The column.” It had taken almost no time back in Toronto for his patience with Henry Higgins to wear as thin as ever.

“The column,” Higgins repeated blankly.

“The _column,_ Henry! The one in today’s _Telegraph_ about the supernatural!”

“Oh, _your_ column.” Henry laced his fingers behind his head.

George huffed, indignant. “Not _my_ column, Henry! How many times do I have to tell you—”

“ _Fine_ , George.” Higgins rolled his eyes and raised a hand. “ _The_ column that is just _coincidentally_ always about topics in which you have a great interest.”

“The purest happenstance, Higgins, I’m sure.” George glared right back. “But today’s column. I suppose the topic is the lost city of Atlantis, given the sensationalist front page headline about the supposed mermaid skeleton on display at the Toronto Industrial—er, I mean the Canadian National Exhibition. I suppose I do understand why they changed the name this year, but it is a bit jarring. Now, now the inspector! Do you think he’s seen it?”

Higgins sat back a little. “I… I don’t think I do. Now that you mention it, he has seemed quite distracted since he arrived. Usually he wants it read aloud first thing. I think he enjoys watching you squirm.”

George glowered. “I’m well aware of that, Higgins. But he hasn’t said a word about this one, at least not while I’ve been at my desk. And I’ve hardly stepped away all morning.” He gestured at the enormous pile of files on his desk. “It seems he saved all the most tedious paperwork of the past two months for my return.” He looked over at Brackenreid’s office: the shades were drawn and the inspector was oddly quiet. George was starting to wonder whether there was cause for concern.

An evil grin started to spread across Higgins’ face, and he lunged for the paper. “Now George, we don’t have to wait for the inspector to enjoy it,” he said as he unfolded it and opened to the relevant page. “Atlantis, you say.”

Heads perked up all over the bullpen, and George rubbed his brow, resigned to yet another dramatic reading of what might or might not be his own words. He was long since weary of hearing about the dratted columns in the _Telegraph,_ and he dearly wished he had never let Louise Cherry talk him into trusting her with his work. He was growing weary of the incessant teasing every time one of the damned things was published. And even if he wanted to, by now it was far too late to claim them as his own, having strenuously denied authorship so many times.

Henry shook out the paper, smoothed it down, and began to read.

_Around the globe, mysterious giant stone structures have loomed implacably over the landscape for thousands of years. The immense stone heads on Easter Island. The monoliths at Stonehenge. The Great Pyramids of Egypt._ (George winced.) _The rumoured colossal heads in a remote Mexican jungle. The Great Wall of China. To a one, these enormous figures and structures are installed in places far from the quarries where their stone was mined._

_How is it possible, I have often asked myself, that similar innovations for moving such massive monoliths over great distances could have emerged all at once, in such far-flung corners of the world?_

_Each monument is a disconnected figure from the past. Yet some common origin might join them together. The tools to carve and move these monoliths indicate advanced technology. There is a place where the knowledge and skills to create these structures may be found: the Kingdom of Atlantis. Never before have explorers been so close to finding Atlantis. Never have we possessed as many clues, nor have we been able to bring the detection equipment of modern science to the search_ — _until now. **[i]**_

George could bear it no longer. “What is this… _rubbish?_ ” he burst out. “Those places weren’t built at the same time! And the Druids who constructed Stonehenge certainly didn’t come from Atlantis! Where on Earth did this… this _Boneface_ fellow _get_ all this?” He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Henry snickered, clearly eager to goad his friend. “You disapprove, George? I should have thought you’d be quite intrigued by such twadd— ah, speculation.”

“Well, truth be told, Henry, there was a time I might have found such… such _codswallop_ compelling, but I’ve been doing a fair bit of research about the Lost Kingdom of Atlantis of late, for my new novel. And you may remember I’ve some familiarity with Ancient Egypt, as it was the topic of my first novel.”

Higgins sat back and rolled his eyes. “You may have mentioned.”

George continued on, undeterred. “It’s simply ludicrous to suggest the Egyptians needed the outside influence of the Atlanteans. The Egyptians had a truly remarkable culture, you know. Our friend Abélard, you know, the gentleman we met in Paris—”

Henry exhaled sharply. “Yes, George, yes, we know you went to Paris, you were quite insufferable about it for weeks before you left.”

George glared daggers at Henry. “I beg your pardon, Higgins, I was speaking about Egypt.”

Detective Murdoch cleared his throat. The men turned toward him, surprised: no one had noticed him standing in the door of his office to listen to the reading. “Earlier I heard you speak of Stonehenge,” he said without further preamble. “George is right. The Druids are indeed those most likely to have built Stonehenge, and their origin _certainly_ has nothing to do with the supposed Lost Kingdom of Atlantis.”

“The Druids _,_ sir?” Higgins echoed.

“Indeed, Henry. The upper class of the ancient Celtic cultures. They left no written record of themselves, but the literatures of the ancient Romans and Greeks make detailed reference to them. Julius Caesar described them as early as 50 BC, and the writer John Aubrey made the connection in the early 1600s between them and the megaliths at Stonehenge. No one has yet come up with any other more plausible theories.” Murdoch shook his head. “The idea of fugitives from _Atlantis_ being responsible? I should hardly think so.”

“And, and the pyramids were constructed long before that! The Kingdom of Atlantis is surely fascinating enough without all this… this _nonsense!_ ” George was indignant.

Detective Watts unfurled himself from a chair. “Well, George, one might argue that the idea of an actual such kingdom is also… nnnonsense, as you call it. Indeed, most scholars believe Plato intended it merely as part of an allegory spelled out in his dialogues _Timaeus_ and _Critias_ about the hubris of nations.”

“Sir, I-I’m familiar with the story. Ancient Athens was under siege by the Atlanteans, who had defeated every other nation known at the time. And yet Athens was of such great power that not only did they repel the attack, they ensured the entire kingdom disappeared into the Atlantic.”

Murdoch lifted an eyebrow in pleasant surprise. “You _have_ been reading a great deal, haven’t you, George.”

“Well, sir, I saw that there was to be an exhibit about the Lost Kingdom at the Toronto International Exhibition this year, and I got curious. You know, as I’m a writer and all. I’ve been researching Atlantis for my new novel. A, a daring heist, or caper, or somesuch, taking place in the end days of the city. I mean, surely they would have known of their impending doom, as they were such an advanced society.”

Watts inclined his head in thought. “And so you would set it within the context of Plato’s dialogues, and the siege of his… fictionalised Ancient Athens.”

George shook his head. “Well, not necessarily _fictionalised_ , sir. I dare say there might be evidence suggesting Atlantis was quite real.”

Murdoch and Watts exchanged a glance. “And… what would that evidence be, George?” Murdoch asked, an eyebrow raised high.

“Oh, _here_ we go,” muttered Constable McNabb, in a passable impression of the inspector. A titter ran across the room.

George stifled the urge to glare at everyone, and pressed on. “Well, sirs. Plato describes the great resourcefulness of the Atlanteans, and the elegance of the planning of the city, and the variety and beauty of the architecture. So clearly they were quite a sophisticated society. And, and he also says that they had extremely close relationships with the gods. Given what we know of the complexity of human societies, as well as all the scheming and hugger-mugger that went on among the Greek gods, I believe it stands to reason that a certain segment of Atlantean society had warning of the Kingdom’s impending doom. And, and perhaps one of the gods was particularly friendly with some Atlanteans who wanted nothing to do with the, the administrators! The ruling class! The ones who got the Kingdom in trouble with the gods. The others, though, those folk remained loyal to the gods, sirs. And the gods must have smiled on the loyalists, and turned them into, into mermaids so they could make their escape after the entire Kingdom sank into the sea!”

Murdoch’s smirk of disbelief was becoming ever more difficult to conceal. “ _Evidence_ , George.”

“Ah, _evidence,_ sir! Well, you may recall I mentioned that display at Toronto International Exhibition. If you look on the front page of today’s _Telegraph_ ”—he snatched the paper from Henry and folded it away from the column—“you’ll see an entire column occupied by an advertisement for the mermaid skeleton on display at the Ex!”

“Crabtree!” barked the inspector.

“Sir! I didn’t see you.” George straightened up, disconcerted by Brackenreid’s sudden looming presence in the doorway behind him.

“Come back to Earth, Bugalugs. That’s a drawing, not a photograph. God knows what kind of rubbish some charlatan has assembled into what he purports to be the remains of a mermaid.”

Murdoch spoke up. “I would agree, sir. I am reminded of P. T. Barnum’s ‘Feejee Mermaid’ hoax, in 1842. He promoted a set of remains as a mummified mermaid, but it turned out to be the top half of a young monkey sewn to the rear half of a fish. Indeed, I can think of numerous examples of hoaxes involving the supposed corpses of mermaids over the years. Not one has turned out to be genuine.”

“Well, sirs, what if this one actually _is_ genuine?” George persisted. “What if… what if these apparent remains are actually the corpse of a creature heretofore unknown to exist?”

“Honestly, George, if it were the real thing, do you think it would be making its first public appearance _here_ , in Toronto? The possessor would find a far larger audience in Montreal, or even New York. Or London!”

“Well…” George trailed off, pondering for a moment until it came to him. He snapped his fingers and held up a finger. “Yes. They wanted to choose a smaller centre for its public debut, in order to reduce the risk that harm would befall it. Yes! Perhaps Toronto has a reputation as a safe and reliable place for such displays.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Crabtree. Have ye forgot two years ago when half the city was in ruins from the fire? Or when the Chief Constable himself was thrown in jail for the _second_ time, just last spring?”

George inclined his head, conceding the point. “I, I suppose so, sir. But perhaps…”

Murdoch held up a hand. “I believe we should all withhold judgement on the topic of the mermaid until there’s been opportunity to examine it thoroughly, and perhaps even await the results of a post mortem performed by Doctor Ogden or Miss Hart. I suspect it will prove no more genuine than Mister Barnum’s deception.”

“Well, sir, even if the alleged mermaid corpse at the Exhibition proves to be a man-made contrivance, that does not rule out my theory about the existence of mermaids as descendants of fugitives from Atlantis. Why, the sea is extremely deep! We’ve no idea what’s below the depths we’ve been able to plumb so fa—”

“George!” Watts cut in, testy. “Your ideas about Plato’s work are quite unfounded. The tale of Atlantis is purely allegorical, to illustrate the consequence of hubris on a national scale. _Timaeus_ and _Critias_ are apologues, not literal accounts. His dialogues are hardly histories. They are instead explications of his philosophy, a philosophy, I might add, that is fundamental to the entire… _discipline_ of Western thought.”

“But sir, how do we _know_ that? And are not Plato’s works considered part of the Greek literature? Well, if the only accounts we have of the Druids are in ancient literature, and we accept that they existed, well…”

Murdoch squinted. “Plato’s dialogues are indeed philosophical tracts. They are very different from Julius Caesar’s _Commentarii de Bello Gallico_ , or the histories of Tacitus.”

“ _The_ Julius Caesar, sir?”

“Yes, George, none other. He was a respected historian as well as a statesman and military man.”

“Why, yes, I believe I do remember about that now. I’m afraid I haven’t the good fortune of a Jesuit education, and anyway, my expertise regarding that area of the world runs more toward Ancient Egypt, as you may remember.” George recognized Murdoch’s attempt to stifle an eyeroll, and decided to bring the conversation back to the topic at hand. “But as for the mermaids…”

“ _Evidence_ , George.”

“Well, perhaps I should visit the Exhibition to investigate this supposed mermaid cadaver. I mean, on the offhand chance that my theory proves incorrect, the Constabulary would certainly be interested in uncovering fraud, would we not, sirs?”

“Not Station Four’s jurisdiction, George. You know as well as I do that’s Six’s territory.”

“Funny you should mention that… place, Murdoch.” Brackenreid did not even try to conceal his distaste. “I’ve just received word from the Acting Chief Constable that quite a few of the lads at Station House Six were laid low by some bad beef sandwiches at their annual summer picnic yesterday, and so there are extra lads needed for patrols at the Exhibition until they recover.”

George sat up even straighter, a grin spreading across his face. _The mermaid! Perhaps even today!_ “Might I volunteer, sir!” he nearly shouted. His enthusiasm for the annual fair was well known around the station house.

Brackenreid shot a look at the stack of files on Crabtree’s desk, and glowered. “No. No you will not, Crabtree. Not this year. You went to Paris, remember?”

George’s shoulders sagged with disappointment for a moment, until Murdoch piped up. “Sir, I suggest you let him. If we are to mend fences and rebuild trust with the rest of the Constabulary, under its new leadership, we should send our most competent men to ensure the job is done well.”

George turned toward Murdoch. _Did he just…_

Brackenreid glanced heavenward, and reddened. “Undermine me to my own face, then, why don’t you, Murdoch. Fine. Fine, then! Crabtree! Get out. You too, Higgins. McNabb.” He pointed at each in turn. “Get yourselves across town to Station House Six and report for duty there! See if I care.” He retreated back into his office, the shades still drawn, and slammed the door.

Murdoch swallowed hard, and George gave him a sympathetic glance. “Sir?”

The detective shrugged a little before he addressed the men. “You heard him, lads.” The constables stood up and reached for their helmets, looking nonplussed as they headed for the door, Crabtree holding back until he could speak to Murdoch.

He approached him, and began softly. “Sir, I…”

“You should… go, George. I’ll handle things here. But before you do, there _is_ something I would like to discuss. Come into my office for a moment, won’t you?”

“Of course, sir,” said George as he followed the detective. Murdoch closed the door behind them, and gestured George toward a chair. They both sat down.

“Yes, sir? What was it you needed? And what on Earth is the matter with the inspector?”

Murdoch steepled his fingers, his elbows on the desk. “He’s sulking, George.”

“ _Sulking_ , sir.”

“Yes, George.”

George inhaled sharply. “Sir, _why_ is he sulking? What is he sulking _about?_ ”

Murdoch glanced over his shoulder, and then leaned toward George, _sotto voce,_ “Inspector Brackenreid has indicated there is trouble at home.”

George sat up, eyes wide. “Trouble at home, sir,” he repeated.

“I… I’m not sure I should be telling you this, George.”

George inclined his head slightly and stared at the detective, noticing not for the first time since he’d returned from France that there was something different about the man. “Sir?” He had no idea what to make of Murdoch’s odd remark.

“Very well, then,” Murdoch continued, assuming George meant for him to do so. “He, ah, began our conversation this morning with a hypothetical question concerning the most reasonable amount of time for a woman to remain in residence with her sister and brother-in-law.”

George was taken aback, and a little thrilled. _Gossip is quite unlike him, but I won’t say no if he’d like to engage in such a satisfying pastime…_ “Hypothetical, was it? Then I suppose Mrs. Brackenreid’s sister is come to visit from Grimsby. I thought the inspector didn’t particularly mind his sister-in-law.”

“Well, apparently the sister-in-law is not so much the issue as her new dog.”

George brightened. “A new dog, sir! For myself, I believe I’d find that quite marvellous. The inspector doesn’t like this one? Hm.” He rubbed his chin. “Now that I think about it, sir, I shouldn’t think I’ve ever seen him in the presence of a dog. I’d imagine him to be the sort who would bear great yet gruff affection for the creatures.”

“Not this dog, it would seem. It appears this particular dog is, to quote the inspector, ‘an enormous, high-strung, biting, noisy, sodding filthy beast that keeps everyone up at all hours and stinks up the house on the regular because Margaret’s sister won’t bloody housebreak the damn thing.’”

George nearly choked. Was he still slightly drunk on French wine? Had Murdoch just… done an impression of Inspector Brackenreid? What was _with_ the man? He’d never seen him so jovial.

Murdoch continued, pretending to be oblivious to George’s stifled laughter. “So it’s likely best to stay well out of his way for the next few days, at least until the issue of the dog’s lodging is resolved.”

“I… see, sir. So I’m off to Station House Six, then.”

“Yes, George.” Was that a hint of _mischief_ in the detective’s eye? “And should you find yourself near the Atlantis display at the Exhibition, perhaps you might enquire into the authenticity or lack thereof of the supposed mermaid there.”

“But, sir. There’s nothing strictly illegal about displaying counterfeit artefacts as genuine, is there?”[ii]

“Well, the man running the booth isn’t likely to know that, is he?”

George was nearly giddy as the detective’s meaning dawned, and shot him a stunned look. Murdoch merely shrugged. “Sir? You mean I can go see the mermaid corpse on Constabulary time?”

“I wouldn’t put it in those terms, George, certainly not in front of the inspector.” He chuckled. “But I shouldn’t wish for any further delay to your return to your regular duties here.”

George gave a lopsided smile. “You missed me, then, did you, sir?”

Murdoch averted his gaze. “You might say so, George.”

George’s smile became a wide grin, and he stood up to shake the detective’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I missed you too, quite a lot. I’ll be back at my desk as soon as I can, sir.”

* * *

[i] Once again, much of this is shamelessly stolen from an _In Search Of…_ episode, this one about Atlantis.

[ii] There wasn’t. I checked the _Criminal Code of Canada, 1892,_ pretty carefully.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George goes to the Ex, but not at all in the way he'd hoped.

**September 1, 1905, Canadian National Exhibition, 11:30am**

George’s head was still spinning about how his return to work had gone so far. He had arrived for work for his first full day back at Station House Number Four, but within less than an hour, thanks to his and Henry’s car, he found himself, Higgins, and McNabb reporting for duty to Acting Detective Joseph Patterson across the city at Number Six. George always kept an eye on the comings and goings of the leadership at all six station houses, and he was surprised not to see Detective Bertram, the actual detective newly assigned to the station, until he remembered about the bad beef.

Patterson was a very young man, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, and he struck George as rather gormless. Initially confused by their arrival, he sent them straight off to patrol the Exhibition grounds the moment he realised why they were there. He instructed them that each of the east end constables was to be paired with one from the west, and told George to look for a Constable Stewart, already on the grounds. Stewart was apparently very green, brand new to the Constabulary (as so many of the lads were), and to Toronto itself. Patterson himself remained behind, staring balefully at the pile of paper on Bertram’s desk, and looking utterly overwhelmed, while George and Higgins sniped good-naturedly at each other about not being paired up for the day.

It turned out, the Station Four fellows learned in the brief wagon to the entrance gates, that Patterson was himself one of the more recently hired constables, and one of the only men left standing after the fateful barbecue. Apparently he had gotten lost on his way to the park, and all the hot hamburger sandwiches were gone before he arrived. _Likely a most temporary promotion, then,_ George surmised, before he turned his thoughts toward what would inevitably be a bittersweet afternoon and evening.

George had always loved the Ex. The rides, the games, the shows, the races, the displays, the food, the fireworks… all of it made for a long and thoroughly enjoyable day, one even more pleasant when shared with a sweetheart. He felt slightly naughty for managing to get to the grounds at all this year—he’d been wondering how he would finagle even more time off for his annual pilgrimage to the fair so soon after two months’ absence—and yet here he was, sent by a detective himself (well, an _acting_ detective). _Although I suppose I’ll hardly be able to enjoy any of it properly this time..._

Indeed, for the moment he had far more pressing matters. Detective Murdoch was counting on him to ingratiate himself, and by extension, Station House Number Four, to Number Six. There was still much animosity toward Number Four from the rest of the Constabulary: among most of the men, it hardly needed to be said that lads in blue were loyal to the chief constable. Resentment lingered about Davis’s abrupt resignation, and rumours still swirled about exactly what had happened to land Detective Murdoch in jail only to spring him abruptly in exchange for two of the most powerful men in the City. And those who had gotten a good look at Chief Constable Davis before he slipped quietly out of town said that he looked like the resignation had been beaten out of him with a meaty pair of fists.

The Station House Six lads were still rather sore about all that—Davis had had his fingers in things there, and he had been good to the boys who were loyal—and George understood from a friend at Number One that his fellow lads there had gossiped quite a lot about the matter at a recent baseball game with the lads from Number Six. _And fair enough calling it gossip_ , he was convinced. _It’s really no different from what the ladies do. Quite a practical way to share information, to my mind._

George mused that today might go in any of several ways, depending on this Stewart fellow. Perhaps he was new enough that he would bear a Number Four lad no ill will, or perhaps George would have to spend the day trying to win him over. Perhaps he was adventuresome, and would humour George’s interests in the displays. Or perhaps he was a nervous type, eager to please his superiors, still very much in the earnest by-the-book mode so common to the younger men. _Well, I always do welcome the opportunity to share hard-earned wisdom with a fresh-faced lad…_

The wagon rolled to a stop, and Higgins opened the doors. George’s heart sank for a moment as he caught a glimpse of the water chute ride. He certainly didn’t begrudge Murdoch his wish to improve Number Four’s reputation; he just wished he could do so in such a way that would enable him to partake of the glories of the Ex. He decided to try consoling himself with thoughts of Paris.

The effort had the opposite effect from what he had intended: he kept thinking of Nina, and how much he missed her constant companionship. It was hard to readjust to being away from her so much, after spending nearly every waking moment with her during their trip. _Perhaps she might meet me here late one evening, if just for the pyrotechnic display…_

He parted company with Higgins and McNabb, agreeing to meet with them back at the Dufferin Gate at seven p.m. for the ride home. As he made his way to the gate, a long lineup snaking toward it, he was briefly grateful to be in uniform: it meant he could proceed straight through, bypassing the line altogether. A ticket taker waved him along, and he started looking for young Constable Stewart. Patterson had described the chap as a ginger. George hoped he wasn’t as volatile as Inspector Brackenreid could be.

His eye alit on another man in uniform, youngish, wiry, small in stature, and yes, a ginger. He carried himself with confidence. His expression was trusting and open—he looked familiar, somehow, but George couldn’t quite place him. While he was racking his brain, the other man spotted him and broke into a wide grin as he rushed toward him, extending a hand for a vigorous shake.

“George Crabtree! I thought I recognized you! I didn’t know you’re a copper!” the constable enthused as he continued to pump George’s hand.

George stared, a smile frozen on his face as he tried as hard as he could to remember how he knew this man. He knew he had never seen him in a police uniform before, but other than that, he was lost. Images of Detective Murdoch’s mix-and-match cards of facial features flashed through his mind, flipping through at a blinding speed until they stopped on the visage of the man standing before him. _Yes, he’s familiar, but from where?_ _Stewart. Stewart._

“George Crabtree and George Stewart, together again! Who’d have imagined? Why, there we were in the middle of the wilderness, and now here we are in the big city!”

_The wilderness._

_The woods._

_George Stewart._

_Haileybury._

_Oh, dear Lord, no. No!_

His heart sank. There went any chance he had of enjoying what little he could manage to see of the Ex. He was partnered, at least for the day, with the unbearably garrulous young man that he and a wounded Detective Murdoch had encountered on the way home from up north.

Had it really been three years since that dreadful night at the camp? George had had his hands full with a deathly ill Murdoch, and Stewart had seemed a decent fellow, heart in the right place, but he _would not stop talking_. George had tried everything he could think of to make himself heard: holding up a hand, interrupting, and even talking loudly over him. Nothing worked. And his chosen topics had been of little interest to George even before he had explained them in excruciating detail: the effects of soil composition and climate on the growth of potatoes, the finer points of bovine husbandry and the delivery of reluctant calves, the best sources of farming implements in various small towns in Ontario… George’s eyes glazed over at the thought of days spent in the company of this irritating young man. _I suppose this is how I pay for that dreamtime in Paris…_

“…and after a few weeks on a farm in Bradford, well, I met a wonderful young lady at church! Her parents sent her north from Toronto to work as a dairymaid and send money home. And we courted about six months, and then we married. It was an awful nice wedding, at Little Trinity Church there in Corktown, on King Street. You know it?”

George started to respond that yes, he did, it was not far from Station House Four, but he could not get a word in before George Stewart barrelled on. “She said we had to marry in Toronto, and live here. Her whole family is here, so many brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews…” he trailed off, looking wistful and more than a little overwhelmed. “And, well, I’ve just got here, and Moira’s father suggested the Constabulary as a career for a strong young man, so here I am.”

George, startled by a slight pause in the lad’s monologue, broke in. “I, ah, well! Congratulations, Constable! That’s wonderful news. And I had thought never to see you outside a farm!”

George Stewart’s eyes darkened. “Yeah. I miss ‘em. And Toronto is so violent and awful! All these souls on the wrong side of the law. Someone gets killed nearly every week here! But I guess I can help clean it up. Moira’s father says being a constable is the most respectable job there is for a man like me who’s got only a few years of school. And he’s friends with the inspector, so he put in a good word for me.” Stewart paused for a moment, lost in thought.

Crabtree was struck: Stewart seemed a changed man. The boyish enthusiasm was still there, but it was tempered with a world-weariness, perhaps even a sense of resignation. George was surprised to find himself feeling a little bad for him.

“And what do _you_ think about it? Being a constable, I mean?”

George Stewart hesitated. “Well… it’s all right, I suppose. There will be a pension, so I can look after Moira when we’re old, and it’s honest work cleaning up the city. And I can’t afford a farm—my father passed on last year, left our family land to my older brother, and, well, me and him, we don’t get on.” His face darkened. “So this seemed the best option, ‘specially since Moira wants to start a family. Her parents want a lot of grandchildren!” Crabtree was moved by an unmistakable sadness in the younger man’s eyes.

 _Oh, dear. This will be awkward, but not in the way I had feared._ George swallowed. “Uh… well. Welcome to the Constabulary, then, and welcome to Toronto. I, ah, suppose we’d best begin our patrol?”

Constables Stewart and Crabtree—the younger man told the older one to call him “Stew,” a nickname his father-in-law had bestowed upon him—covered a great deal of ground over the next few hours. Not long into their watch, Crabtree edged in a remark about the Lost Kingdom, and Stew had immediately started enthusiastically repeating the theory he’d had to debunk in the Station House Four bullpen that very morning _._

“And you see, George, all these stone monuments, all over the world, they were all built by the fugitives from Atlantis!”

Crabtree stopped in his tracks and rubbed his forehead, suppressing the urge to spin the lad around and shake him. “Constable. Stew. You’ve been reading today’s _Toronto_ _Telegraph_?”

Stewart brightened. “Well, no, but I heard it! The other lads at the station house read it out loud, said it sounded like I wrote it! But I can’t write that good.”

 _Likely not much of a reader, either, I suppose._ Crabtree was taken aback. “Pardon? Sounded like _you_ wrote it _?_ How’s that, then?”

“Well, I, ah, people make fun of me when I say so, but… don’t you think a lot of the, well, the _usual_ explanations for things don’t sound like they’re the whole story?”

Crabtree’s interest was piqued. “I suppose I often do, yes. But what sort of ‘things’ do you mean?”

“Well, the stone monuments, for one! All showing up in different parts of the world at the same time!”

Crabtree’s shoulders drooped a little, and he rubbed his forehead again. “That’s… not so, Stew. They… they were not constructed at the same time. I’m sure you find that theory most intriguing, but there’s simply no truth to it. The column wasn’t accurate at all. Stonehenge was built by the Druids, and the Great Pyramids were built by the Egyptians. The, the Egyptians had thousands of workers using an elaborate system of pulleys and levers and ramps. Why, at one time I was convinced the pyramids were constructed with alien technology, but I was recently in Paris, you see, with my sweetheart, and our new friend Abélard explained it all to us. He’s the head of the Department of Egyptian Antiquities at the Louvre, you know.” _Of course he wouldn’t know. How could he?_ George chided himself.

Stew looked at him blankly, undaunted. “What’s a Louvre?”

Crabtree was horrified, at least for the very brief moment before he realised he now had licence to talk Stewart’s ear off. His horror turned to glee. _Turnabout is fair play, is it not?_

“Oh, good heavens, the Louvre! The Louvre Museum! It’s quite marvellous! An enormous old palace, right in the middle of Paris! It’s now a museum full of art and artefacts from all over the world. My sweetheart and I were lucky enough to travel there this summer—we’ve been back home in Toronto only a matter of days—and we had quite an adventure! Why, Nina was invited to go as a dancer at one of the most famous nightclubs in the world, and she brought me along…”

George launched into a long description of his and Nina’s escapades in the City of Light, and how they had brought down an international effort to steal priceless Egyptian artefacts destined for the museum. Stewart’s eyes were wide as saucers the entire time George spoke, and he said only a few words until the story was finished.

George was once again struck by the change in the young farmer-turned-constable. Perhaps it was his training that had made an impression, teaching him that he needed to listen to be an effective policeman? Or perhaps grief at his father’s passing. Or was it the effect of his love, and her family? They did sound most overbearing, especially that father. Crabtree was intrigued, and found himself more drawn to the young man than he had been back in the woods. He felt an almost paternal concern, even though he had only about fifteen years on the fellow. Was he quite all right?

Stew was especially fascinated by George’s descriptions of the Pyramids, and mummies, and the treasures of the Egyptian desert. Today’s _Telegraph_ column was only the second time in his life that he’d even heard about Egypt—the first was when his family had visited his Aunt Euphemia in Orillia when he was about seven, and he had seen a picture of the Pyramids and the Sphinx in a book on her coffee table. He hung on George’s every word, and Crabtree was genuinely moved to see in him the joy he himself had felt as he discovered the wonders of the Nile Valley. _Perhaps I might arrange to distribute some copies of my first novel in more… remote areas. Who knows where a young boy’s interest might be piqued? Or, I suppose, a young girl as well… And of course I will spare one for young Constable Stewart, here._ George made a mental note to bring a copy with him the next day.

As the afternoon progressed, Crabtree did his best to steer their patrol toward the Atlantis displays, located in a large white tent not far from the front entrance of the Manufacturers’ Building. George was briefly rueful: he had never stopped being disappointed by Detective Murdoch’s refusal to allow the display and promotion of his ingenious inventions in such a venue, next to booths for such illustrious manufacturers as Singer and Inglis and Massey-Ferguson. He knew there just _had_ to be a market for the time- and labour-saving devices that the detective was talented enough to summon into being from his imagination. Alas.

Stew was so enthused by the discussion of “supernature,” as he called it, that he returned to dominating the conversation completely. He was clearly intrigued by the _Telegraph_ column, and he wished to discuss the Lost Kingdom in some detail, advocating vigorously for the theory that the giant stone monuments around the world had a common origin.

“And that mermaid, the one on the front page? We must see her! She’s the remains of an _actual inhabitant of Atlantis!_ ” Stew intoned gravely as they made their way past the crowds that were streaming toward the Manufacturers’ Building to visit all the displays. “The paper said that, too. Maybe the Egyptians mummified it. You know, all that mummy stuff is really creepy. My aunt’s book said they rip out your organs and put them in jars. Now I’m good at butchering—nights we had chicken, I had to go break a neck out back b’fore I plucked and gutted the thing—but I sure don’ want to be butchered myself. Do you think butchered creatures have ghosts? Do you think this mermaid is a mummy? What if it was butchered? What if its ghost follows it around? Do you…” Stew’s eyes grew enormous. “George, do you think _mummies have ghosts?_ ”

George cracked a smile, entertained by Stew’s fantastical suggestions. _Ghosts? Of mummies? Goodness._ “I, I suppose I’ve never considered that. That’s a most intriguing point. Ghosts of mummies. They would likely wish to stay where they died, in their ancestral homes, would they not? Or should their mummies be moved, are they somehow bound to them? Would they have to accompany them? I must say, that’s quite fascinating, Stew! I, I must look into this, at the library!”

Stew looked slightly green, as if he had hoped George would dismiss his idea. “What… what about that one, there?”

“The remains of whatever Mister Smiley had on display? Well, whether they are genuine… _remains_ to be seen,” he quipped, hoping to lighten Stew’s mood. Stew’s stare was as earnest as ever, and Crabtree decided a change of subject would be for the best, if only to help distract the poor lad from what he apparently found a terrifying notion. ““Now Stew, don’t let your imagination get the better of you. Let’s for the moment assume an Earthly explanation.”

 _George! I’m proud of you!_ He could almost hear Detective Murdoch by his side.

He shrugged a little. _Well, someone’s got to, sir…_

Stew looked crestfallen, and paused briefly to collect himself. George continued. “There are apparently _two_ Atlantis displays here, and we’d best look at both.”

“Yes!” Stew brightened. “Run by different men with vastly different theories of what happened to the kingdom and whether any descendants of its inhabitants might have escaped a watery grave!” George recognised some phrases directly from the _Telegraph_ article, and tried not to sigh.

“That is what I understood to be true, yes. One is advocating for the Atlantean origin of the world’s great monuments, and the other is displaying some sort of corpse.”

“’Some sort’! George, it’s a mermaid!”

“It’s being _promoted_ as a mermaid, Stew. And even if it is in fact the genuine article, how can we be sure that Atlantis was the source? How can we know for sure that the mermaids came from there?”

“But they had to! My Uncle Aloysius was a sailor, and he heard tell of mermaids all the time in his years on the ocean. They had to come from somewhere!”

“But why Atlantis? Perhaps… perhaps they were the result of…” George trailed off, speculating. “Oh, I don’t know, a human might have taken a dolphin as a lover.”

Stew was briefly horrified, until he began to puzzle. “But… is that even _possible?_ Was the human the male, or the female? Where were they when they mated? Were they in the water, or on land? Was the baby born in the water? Can it live on land? Well, I guess it can’t walk, because it doesn’t have legs, but can it breathe air? Can it breathe water?”

For once, Crabtree was at a loss. _Is this how Detective Murdoch feels when he talks to me?_ “I… I don’t know. I suppose it would indeed be poorly suited to land, but if it inherited lungs from one parent and gills from the other, it would be able to breathe both air and water…”

It was at this point in the discussion that they arrived in front of the Atlantis tent, which was surrounded by large, curious crowds. Half of the front of the tent was open to the elements, and an exhibit was visible inside. The display on the left consisted of a few glass cases containing books, shards of pottery, fragments of stone, and pieces of sea shells. Above it hung a giant banner bearing a portrait of the man who stood at the podium, encircled by ornately painted words:

**THE COSMIC ORIGINS OF ATLANTIS: SEE THE LOST KINGDOM’S IMPACT ON OUR GLOBE!**

**HEAR FROM THE ESTEEMED ZACHARIAH WORTHINGTON, PhD, EXPLORER AND ARCHAEOLOGIST EXTRAORDINAIRE!**

To the right, there were rows of Kinetoscope machines under a neatly lettered sign:

**Witness evidence of the common origins of miraculous structures around the world! Only Ten Cents A view!**

The entire arrangement was backed by three massive hand-painted posters of impressive quality. _Nina would remind me they constitute a triptych,_ George mused _._ The first one showed an expanse of sky, full of great saucer-shaped flying machines hovering over a city on a lush, green island that George recognised instantly as matching Plato’s description of Atlantis. There was the enormous palace on its own circular island, there were the rings of water within rings of land, and there was the wide, manmade canal leading to the whole arrangement from the sea.

The second poster depicted a towering volcano, risen from the ocean to rain lava and ash and fire down on the concentric rings, as saucers full of refugees soared away. The third featured multiple images: Stonehenge, the Great Wall of China, the Great Pyramids of Gizeh, the stepped pyramids at Chichen Itza, all with the odd alien saucers hovering above them. _The same places as in the column_ , George noted with some curiosity.

The man at the booth was beginning a lecture, and George checked his pocket watch to note that it was four o’clock. The gentleman greeted the crowd before him with excitement, shouting over the extremely loud voice booming from the other half of the tent, punctuated by cheers from another crowd. “Welcome one, welcome all! Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to my humble display! I am Zachariah Worthington, doctor of philosophy, explorer, cartographer, archaeologist, scholar of the Lost Kingdom of Atlantis! I take it you are all familiar with the tragic story of the island nation, and its sad and catastrophic descent into the sea!”

George inclined his head noncommittally, sizing up the man up as the fellow barrelled on with enthusiasm before anyone could say a word. He was handsome enough, perhaps in his late thirties, with hair so black it was almost indigo, and piercing, clear blue eyes. His suit was well-tailored and had once been of very fine quality, but now it was rather shabby, worn to a shine at the cuffs. George thought he hadn’t seen that particular style of cutaway coat in at least fifteen years. And the man’s decrepit shoes looked as if they were held together by polish alone.

“And I suppose you, like I, have wondered what happened to all the poor souls in the Kingdom when it vanished under the waves. Of course you have! Well, my friends, I am here to tell you a secret!” Worthington paused for effect, and crouched slightly before he straightened to his full height and declared in a stage whisper: “ _They escaped!_ Theirs was such a tremendously advanced civilisation, far past anything that has ever arisen on Earth, that they were aware of the threat of the volcano under their land, and organised an evacuation of every soul in the Kingdom!”

There was a collective gasp at Doctor Worthington’s revelation, at least from the audience members who could hear him over the din from the opposite side of the tent. Worthington continued to shout, his voice starting to sound worse for the wear.

“And I hear you wondering what I mean by ‘arisen on Earth’! Well, let me let you all in on another secret, this one even more shocking than the last!” He stopped again, letting the suspense build before he finally roared: “The Atlanteans were _not of this world!_ They travelled here from another part of our solar system, across thousands—or more likely _millions_ —of miles!”

More gasps from those who were closest to the lectern. _The people of Atlantis were aliens? That’s a new one._ George immediately started pondering the notion. _I think Plato would have mentioned something about aliens, would he not? And where would they be from? Our Moon? Mars? Perhaps Venus!_

“Imagine it!” Worthington cried, and his voice cracked. “Fugitives from their own despoiled planet, laid waste by natural disaster. Their sophisticated technology, thousands of years more advanced than our own, enabling them to establish a magnificent island kingdom, and to escape that island before its doom!” Worthington was bellowing in full voice now, even as the shouting and cheering from the other side of the tent seemed to grow even louder. “And then they scattered to the far corners of the globe to leave their mark in the form of these enormous monuments! Think about it! The Great Pyramids of Gizeh, for instance, are some of the largest structures on this Earth, and they were constructed with technology quite literally from out of this world!”

Worthington’s voice, already rasping, nearly gave out completely. The crowd assembled closest to him was enthralled, and they burst into applause, while those who could not hear his shouts began to drift away toward the other side of the tent. Meanwhile, George was trying to imagine Abélard Chatelain, head of the entire Department of Egyptian Antiquities at the Louvre Museum, listening to this… this _hogwash_. _He might perish of apoplexy_. George chuckled at the idea. _But aliens… now there’s an intriguing thought…_

Worthington cleared his throat and took a sip of water, then continued. “And they used their flying ships to move the stone! You may not know that for each of these giant structures—the Pyramids, Stonehenge, the Great Wall—the stone used in their construction was moved to the site from a great distance away. Archaeologists have wondered for centuries how primitive humans could have carried out engineering projects of such tremendous scale—well, now you know the secret! And there are distinctive marks carved into each of these features, showing their common origin! Step right up to the Kinetoscopes to see the proof!”

Stew was enraptured, to Crabtree’s chagrin. George was willing to entertain the new-to-him theory about aliens, but the idea that alien technology was responsible for the Pyramids? Nonsense. And George had never heard of anything like the idea that the great stone monuments around the world bore common inscriptions—he was certain he would have run across such an assertion in his research. He almost wanted to watch Worthington’s film right then, to see how far this fellow had gone to promote his theories. Was it some creative editing, splicing footage of the monuments with images of carved rocks? Or (he shuddered to think it) had the man actually gone to the sites and vandalised them himself? He didn’t look wealthy enough for that sort of travel, but perhaps all his money had gone toward his exhibitions, or perhaps he had fallen on hard times…

George considered for a moment. He supposed he could drag this Worthington (if that was really his name) in for suspected fraud, but he hardly wished to make life worse for a chap whose attire clearly showed he had seen better days. In a way, George admired Doctor Worthington, even if he disagreed with him: there was no shame in trying to eke a living out of a wild imagination. The man seemed harmless enough. George finally decided he wished him well.

He was keen to get away from the noise. His acute sense of hearing, often a boon in his line of work, was at the moment a real curse. He tapped Stew on the shoulder and gestured back toward the entrance, as the rest of the crowd that Worthington had attracted surged forward to see the film.

Stew’s disappointment was obvious, but George was resolute: it was time to move along on their patrol. They were in uniform and on duty, after all. _And if that patrol involves looking in on the supposed mermaid’s remains, well, so much the better,_ he thought but did not say.

They exited the tent and walked around it to see the small entrance to the other side, surrounded by an even larger throng of onlookers. Most were organised into a long lineup snaking back and forth within rope barriers placed strategically to manage the horde. A tall man stood at the tent flap shouting through a bullhorn, ready to take tickets and sweep the flap open to admit a single person at a time to the secluded display.

Crabtree and Stewart stood for a moment, taking in the spectacle. George Crabtree tried not to gawk openly, but George Stewart’s mouth hung wide open. The man with the bullhorn was perhaps the most dandified person George had seen in his life. He was attired in a bright lime green morning coat and matching trousers, adorned by sparkling blue and gold _sequins_ , of all things, attached in the shape of mermaids down both sides of the front of the jacket and in stripes down the sides of his trouser legs. At his neck was a frilled, bright purple ascot, trimmed with gold sequins, looking for all the world like the trim on some of Nina’s costumes at the Moulin Rouge. More sequins flashed the word “SMILEY” across the man’s upper back. His matching lime green top hat was festooned with lines of even more blue and gold sparkle, these spiralling around the crown and meeting at a single point on the top, twinkling brightly every time he moved. The posters at the front of the tent were brilliantly lit, and his suit flashed light patterns everywhere. _And is he wearing_ eye makeup? _And_ lip rouge _?_ George had never seen such a sight.

The entrance to the tent itself was decorated in a far more garish style than the one on the other side as well—Crabtree thought it hardly looked out of place among all the games of chance and skill, where the hucksters relieved exhibition-goers of their money in exchange for the slim chance of a ridiculous prize. The style of lettering on the sign above the display was so flamboyant it reminded him of a circus.

**_SPECTACTULAR WONDERS OF ATLANTIS_ **

**_PRESENTED BY CORNELIUS J. SMILEY_ **

**_COME ONE, COME ALL * A ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME CHANCE_ **

**_VIEW THE REMAINS OF A MERMAID * DESCENDANT OF ATLANTEAN KINGS_ **

**_15¢ ADMISSION * NO REFUNDS_ **

George’s heart sank. Any hope he had that the purported “mermaid remains” were genuine evaporated as he took in the massive, gaudy display, his eardrums further assaulted by Mister Smiley’s bullhorn-amplified bellowing of the phrases on the sign. _This man is a swindler_. _No use wasting another moment here_. He sighed inwardly, already prepared to move on.

Stew was not nearly so suspicious, however, and Crabtree realized he was nearly vibrating with excitement. “Let’s go see it, George! Do you think…” he trailed off, lowering his voice and speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “A _mermaid!_ Do you think the uniforms might get us to the front of the line? Perhaps they might even… waive the admission fee for two officers of the law?”

Crabtree hoped his eyeroll was not too conspicuous. “Stew. We are on patrol. I strongly suspect your acting detective will _hardly_ consider paying admission to observe an exhibit—an exhibit that is of, I dare say, questionable authenticity at best—to be within our duties as salaried members of the Constabulary.”

“But what if it _is_ authentic? How could we miss it? And if it isn’t, fraud is illegal, is it not? In that case, couldn’t we arrest the fellow, and collect the mermaid remains as evidence?”

George was rubbing the back of his own head by now, wincing every time Smiley shouted a phrase. “Stew, look around. Do you genuinely believe someone in possession of such a, a, a momentous artefact would need something like, like”—he paused to gesture broadly at the entire tawdry display—“like _that?_ And even if he _did_ make some monstrosity out of, of body parts, how familiar are you with the Criminal Code? There’s nothing there that prohibits this kind of misrepresentation.”

Stew frowned. “Criminals have a code? Like… like a cipher? Or… or wait. You mean a code of conduct. Right?”

George’s irritation was beginning to build. “Canadian law, Stew. The Criminal Code of Canada is the document that sets out exactly what actions are illegal, and what penalties exist for them. Have you really heard _nothing_ of this?”

Stew stroked his chin. “Not so’s I recall, no. My training day was mostly about how to whack someone with a baton and how to fill out an arrest report. There were parts I didn’t really understand, so I stopped listening.”

A deep breath. “Constable George Stewart! My goodness!” George Crabtree shouted over the din. “Knowing the Criminal Code is essential to being a police officer. How else would you know when to arrest people?”

Stew regarded him blankly. “Uh, Detective Patterson just said bring in anyone suspicious and he’d sort it out later.”

George began to sputter. “Stew, you—you can’t _do_ that! There has to be a _reason_ to bring someone down to the station house! Have you never heard of lawsuits resulting from false arrests? With lawyers, and courtrooms, and huge fines for the City?”

George was horrified. Was Station House Six really in such dire straits that they were sending out someone _this_ naïve to police Toronto? _I mean, I do remember that I was quite green when I began with the Constabulary, but at least the sergeants did insist that we be at least somewhat familiar with the laws we are entrusted to enforce…_

Stew stared back at him with genuine bewilderment. “But… the police and the courts are the same thing! Two branches of the same tree! We arrest them, and the courts decide how long they stay in jail!”

Crabtree turned to stare at Stewart. “I, I, I don’t even know where to start with that. The government makes the laws, the Constabulary enforces them, and the courts decide people’s guilt or innocence. Good Lord, man, someone should have explained all of this to you by now!”

Stew looked a little terrified, apparently realising just how far he was in over his head. “I… I suppose we’re just expected to pick it up on the job. From… someone like you, perhaps?”

 _Oh, dear._ Young Stewart was in grave need of a mentor, and George supposed he would have to step into the role, at least for as long as he was with the lads from Number Six. Well, he supposed the fellow was pleasant enough now—had he still been as much of a talker as he had at the wilderness camp, George thought he might have pled illness and fled the Exhibition grounds within an hour. But marriage and the big city seemed to have humbled Stew, and George decided he could spare some hard-earned wisdom for this impressionable young man.

“We will discuss this, Stew. There’s a _lot_ you need know for this job. But for now, we have no grounds to detain this man, regardless of how questionable his exhibit may be.”

“But we could still go see the mermaid!” Stew’s optimism was boundless.

George exhaled, and his heart broke a little. “It’s… not a real mermaid, Stew. Like I told you. Would there be an enormous sign reading ‘NO REFUNDS,’ if it were?”

Crabtree watched Stew consider the sign, and the reasons for it. “So… a charlatan, then.” Stew’s face fell. “My grandmother warned me of such, but I’d no wish to believe her. So we’re not going in.”

“No, Stew, we’re not going in. This”—he waved back toward the tent as he steered Stew onto the road—“is all just a scheme to relieve gullible people of their money. We’re better off reading about Atlantis at the library and the museum, to my mind.” Out of the corner of his eye, George noticed an irate Worthington storming around the corner and toward Mister Smiley. _Hm._ He steeled himself for trouble, even as they continued walking away.

“A librarian, or a curator perhaps, might be aware of the theory about aliens. A most intriguing proposition, if you ask me… although I dare say there’s frightfully little comprehensive information available on the topic of extraterrestrial beings, at least outside the realm of fiction. I, I, I sometimes wonder whether I should take it upon myself to write a work in more of an analytical—might I say _investigative_ —style, discussing the various theories about the creatures from beyond our world...”

As George had feared, a ruckus was beginning behind them. Smiley’s heretofore incessant blaring through the bullhorn stopped abruptly, and the roar from the crowd fell to a hush. George gave a resigned glance to Stew as they turned around. Stew looked simultaneously thrilled and terrified. _Oh, how green he is_ …

Worthington was no more than two inches from Smiley’s face, and he was nearly incandescent. He had clearly lost his voice from trying to shout over Smiley, and he was jabbing his finger into the man’s chest, declaring in a breathy rasp, “…and for the last time I must insist that you cease this… this _cacophony_ ”—he waved at the bullhorn, then turned toward the constables as he noticed them approach—“or I shall be forced to involve the authorities!” He jabbed a finger toward Stew and George and beckoned them over, nearly apoplectic that his voice had all but left him.

A grin spread across Smiley’s face. _His moniker is apt,_ George noted wryly. “And why should I concern myself with any inconvenience to your measly little show? Why, I am merely informing these good people of the truly marvellous, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be had within my exhibit. Obviously, of the two Atlantis displays, mine is the superior experience for visitors to this corner of this august Exhibition.” He turned to the constables. “My good sirs, _surely_ I cannot be blamed for this poor fellow’s misfortunes. Whatever ills he faces are clearly due to his own… well, his own incompetence and the poor quality of his exhibit.”

Worthington lunged toward Smiley, nearly dancing with rage. “How _dare_ you! You… _swindler!_ You _liar!_ You indecent excuse for a man!” he managed to squeak as he grasped for the other’s collar.

George stepped in between the two men to push them away from each other. “Oy! You will stop this now, or we shall have to arrest you both for affray and breaching the peace!” Stew, following George’s cue, grabbed Worthington from the back and pinned his arms behind him.

“Now Doctor Worthington. You will cease this confrontation immediately and return to your booth. And you, Mister Smiley, will moderate your volume. You are sharing space with a fellow devotee of Atlantis, my good sir.” Worthington shot a triumphant look at Smiley, and George continued, giving each of the men a pointed stare. “One would certainly hope you could display mutual respect, if not find common ground. Your apparent rivalry hardly makes the experience of viewing your exhibits more pleasant.” He gave a nod to Stew, who released a scowling Worthington.

“There will be constables patrolling this area regularly,” George warned, “and we will make sure they keep an eye on both of you gentlemen. Good day, sirs.”

Both men glowered back at George and Stew. Smiley, still holding the bullhorn, huffed back to his podium in disgust, while Worthington, holding a hand to his aching throat, regarded him with the filthiest look he could muster. George lifted a hand to warn Smiley to put the bullhorn down, and the sparkling man—truth be told, he looked like he would not be out of place as a column or a piece of furniture in a seedy Paris nightclub—grudgingly put it away under the podium before he began shouting again. “Come one, come all! See the remains of a genuine mermaid, a refugee from the Lost Kingdom of Atlantis!” Worthington stalked back toward his side of the tent, and the crowd, silent as the fracas had unfolded in front of them, began to buzz once more.

“Come along, Stew, let’s be on our way.” George’s spirits had been descending lower and lower throughout the day, and by now his mood was quite foul. Though he had been eager to see the displays, he was most disappointed by them both, and the ugly confrontation had further soured his mood. It was a relief that his shift was nearly over for the day. He could not wait to get away from the noise and home to his bed. He had very much missed his pillow.

Stew, on the other hand, was nearly quivering with excitement. Because he was so new to the Constabulary, he had yet had few experiences with wielding the authority that the uniform conferred. He began chattering at George in much the same way as he had in the woods, except that this time the topic was a blow-by-blow enumeration of each of the three times he had so far had occasion to confront or (just once so far) even arrest someone. George’s heart sank even as he remembered his own heady first days as a constable. He wanted to support this young man, but the fellow was starting to get on his nerves again.

A thought continued to nag at him: _Perhaps this is indeed how Detective Murdoch saw me when I was so new._ George cringed at the thought, and a worse one arose.

_Perhaps this is still how he sees me now._

* * *

**September 1, 1905: King-Dufferin streetcar, eastbound, 9:30pm**

George’s bad humour did not improve one whit on the long streetcar journey back across the city to his boarding house. Higgins and McNabb had waited a mere ten minutes after seven o’clock, and then left word with one of the ticket takers for George that he needed to find his own way home. He was bitterly disappointed by the Atlantis displays, and George Stewart exhausted him. And he could not keep from ruminating on all the Exhibition’s attractions that he’d had to pass by during the afternoon, unable to take them in and enjoy them as he had in so many years past. The sulky races, the water chute ride, the hot dogs and pizza pie and funnel cakes… and the Transportation Building! He had heard that this year there was a display of new and modern vehicles in the Old Art Gallery, surrounded by a palm garden with incandescent lights.

He was particularly vexed at not being able to acquire one of the so-called “20th Century Can Openers” being distributed free of charge in the Manufacturers’ Building, as he could not accept gifts while in uniform. He thought he might not even have minded a trip through the Horticulture Building to see Ruth Newsome’s “Crimson Sunrise” hybrid tea roses, if only to be able to tell Henry. To add insult to injury, the fireworks were starting behind him as the streetcar turned east on King Street from Dufferin.

He had thought very briefly about staying to watch the pyrotechnics, but he did not wish to spend a single minute more with George Stewart today, nor did he wish to continue wandering the Exhibition grounds dressed as a constable. As the sun set and the Friday night began to swell, Constables Crabtree and Stewart had had to deal with three snatched purses, four lost children, at least half a dozen extremely unhappy victims of a stealthy pickpocket, and a brawl. He and Stew rode back to the unfamiliar station house at the front of the wagon crammed with miscreants, and George spent half an hour typing up the day’s report after instructing Stew and the other lads how to book everyone into the cells. He was chagrined to realise his civilian clothes were still in his locker at Parliament and Wilton, miles away. But he supposed that at least he did not have to transport them home.

He hoped past hope there would be no further need for him at Station House Six after today: he did not think he had accomplished what Detective Murdoch had asked, but he had done his level best, and he was tired, and he hated having his nose rubbed in the fun of the Ex while he was unable to take part. Perhaps tomorrow he could just remain at his own desk, finishing the leftover paperwork and sorting through fingermarks. Such time-consuming, relatively mindless tasks seemed most appealing.


	3. Chapter 3

**September 2, 1905: Station House Six, 9:30am**

George had arrived at his usual place of work at 8:00, and had not even managed to sit down at his desk before Detective Murdoch emerged from his office to greet him with an apologetic look and a gesture west. _You’re sorry, sir?_ _Well, I am as well._ He nodded ruefully at the detective, turned around without a word, and left to head south on Parliament to King Street.

McNabb and Henry had the day off, and Henry had taken the car to drive Ruth out to the Scarborough Bluffs. George was thus relegated once again to the King-Dufferin streetcar, which was packed to the gills and miserably hot and stuffy, despite the lovely day outside. And he could not in good conscience occupy a seat when there were women and the elderly aboard, especially not while in uniform. He regretted his decision not to change into the civvies in his satchel before he hopped on board the streetcar. It was not a particularly hot day, but the air inside the streetcar was stifling. The journey across town took nearly ninety minutes, and George was once again extremely cranky when he finally arrived at Station House Six. 

There, he was accosted on his way through the door by a throng of fast-moving constables led by a grim-faced Acting Detective Patterson, beckoning him along. George Stewart grabbed his arm—Crabtree tried not to recoil too sharply—and nearly shouted as the lads made haste toward the wagons: “George, George! A murder at the Ex! At… at the _Atlantis tent!_ ” Stew looked simultaneously terrified and thrilled.

 _Oh, here we go. At least today should be more interesting than yesterday._ “Do we know the identity of the victim?

“Looks like one of the exhibitors!”

* * *

**Towards the Ex, 9:40am**

Patterson had not read last night’s report ( _of course_ , thought George), and so, on the wagon ride over, he and all the other constables gawped at George and Stew as they related their story of the fracas between the two exhibitors. Patterson immediately concluded that whichever of them was not dead was the murderer, and the investigation needed only find the other one to ensure justice was done. George, on the other hand, was not convinced: in his experience, these things were nearly always more complex than they appeared.

George spent some of the trip appraising the other lads, temporary replacements for the rest of the ailing Station House Six crew, they all looked dreadfully young, and dreadfully nervous. Stew stayed glued to George’s side like a barnacle.

As soon as the wagon pulled up to Worthington’s side of the tent, everyone clambered out to find themselves in the midst of total chaos. George managed to push his way through the crowd, Stew following behind him, and looked around.

The scene itself was something straight out of one of Detective Murdoch’s nightmares. Throngs of people were trampling the ground around the body, poking at the corpse, and just generally disturbing any evidence that might have remained around the poor unfortunate victim.

George’s hand slid to his baton. “Oy!” he bellowed just as one fellow was bending down to rifle through the dead man’s pockets. The interlopers all turned, startled.

“Does any of you have business here?” he shouted. “If so, identify yourself immediately! If not, get out of this tent before we remove you by force! And _you!_ Get your hand out of that pocket, and show it to me! Make sure it’s empty. In, in, in fact, Constable Stewart here is going to search you thoroughly, to make sure you’ve not helped yourself to anything else!” He waved Stew toward the would-be thief, and moved to herd everyone else back outside, shouting to a few other constables to detain them for interviews.

Once the mob was gone, George turned back to examine the victim. Though he lay face down, there was no mistaking his identity: George would have recognised the sparkling lime green suit and top hat anywhere, even if the jacket hadn’t announced the man’s name. Crabtree inclined his head toward a wide-eyed George Stewart. _“_ Well, I suppose Mister Cornelius J. Smiley won’t be smiling much now.. _._ ”

Stew tittered uneasily, staring hard at the body. He was slightly green, and not merely from the light reflecting off the suit. George knew that look, and dropped the joking manner.

“First one?”

Stew blinked. “First what?”

“First body.”

Stew’s eyes grew even huger, and they clouded with anguish. George knew he’d guessed right. “Right. I’m sorry, lad.” He genuinely was. “It’s rough. Talk later. Right now we’ve a job to do.” Stew nodded mutely, and Constable Crabtree emerged from the tent to observe how Patterson and his lads handled a scene. Perhaps he could learn something from them (although he doubted it, it was rarely a bad idea keep an open mind).

On taking it all in, he immediately reconsidered. Potential witnesses were wandering away, the lads doing nothing to organise them for interviews. Patterson was bursting into the tent to all but roughhouse with the body, patting it down to see if the victim had been armed, rifling through his pockets, tearing paper and fabric in his enthusiasm as he fished things out to have a look. He glanced up to see the flabbergasted expression on Crabtree’s face, and he flushed slightly.

_These men are the rankest of amateurs! I should certainly hope the regular lads are more competent than this! Good Lord!_

Clearly no one else was about to take charge, and someone had to if there were to be any hope whatsoever of solving this crime. George marched back into the tent, to the far side of the podium, and looked underneath the lectern: sure enough, the bullhorn was just where Smiley had left it. George Crabtree snatched it and strode outside once again. He drew a deep breath, held the bullhorn to his mouth, and bellowed into it at the top of his lungs.

“ _OY! Toronto Constabulary!_ ”

The shout was so loud that even George jumped back a little. The effect on the crowd was electric. Everyone froze, including Patterson and the other constables.

“Everyone step _away_ from the tent! Step away, I said! And absolutely no one is to leave the area! The constables will be taking statements from each and every one of you, and should you try to skulk away, I assure you, you won’t like what happens. Isn’t that right, lads.” He looked around at the stunned constables with the steeliest expression he could muster, and they nodded back at him, cowed. Not for the first time, he wished he cut a more imposing figure, but the power of the bullhorn seemed to be quite enough for the moment.

He drew another breath. “The coroner’s wagon will be along soon enough, and anyone failing to make way will be promptly escorted to the cells at the station house! Now once again! Do not leave the area! A constable will be along to interview each of you! Good day, ladies and gentlemen!”

Patterson and all the young constables turned to stare at him blankly. There was an audible pop as George stretched his neck from side to side. _I’m going to have to run this entire investigation, aren’t I. Dear God._ He closed his eyes briefly, lowered the bullhorn, and beckoned them toward himself.

His tone was quiet and almost conspiratorial as he instructed them, and he hoped he was concealing his frustration. He remembered being green, but never _this_ green. “Right, lads, here’s what you do. You ask them some basic questions. Name and address, when they arrived at the tent, what they saw when they did, whether they’ve noticed anyone or anything unusual or suspicious. Then you write down what they say. You were all given notebooks and pencils, were you not?” He patted the pocket containing his own.

A dozen hands reached up to a dozen breast pockets and reached inside. Out came notebooks and pencils, to the lads’ apparent surprise. “Borrowed your uniforms, then.” Crabtree smirked a little. “Well, off you go. And _listen._ Speak as little as possible.” He wondered if Stew saw his glance. “If anyone saw anything strange, tell them we’ll call on them should we have further questions. And tell them that if they remember anything later, they must contact us here at the station house. And don’t let anyone leave until you’ve spoken with them!”

Stew lingered behind, bug-eyed. “What… what do I do?”

George swallowed, hard. “You… you ask them some basic questions. Name and address, when they arrived, what they saw, whether they’ve seen anything suspicious.”

“Oh. Like all the other lads?” Stew looked a little stricken.

“Yes, Stew. Like all the other lads. Why don’t you start with the young chap who greeted us?”

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

**Inside the Atlantis tent, 10:45am**

“Thank you for coming, Doctor Ogden,” George welcomed the City Coroner, holding out a hand to assist her as she stepped out of the carriage that had brought her across town.

“Constable Crabtree! What a pleasant surprise,” she greeted him warmly as he ushered her into the tent. “Detective Murdoch mentioned you were assigned to this end of town at the moment. Something about bad beef at a station house picnic?”

“Why, yes, Doctor, that’s exactly what happened. All the _trained_ constables at Station Six are off sick.” He could tell from her rueful glance that she understood his unspoken meaning. “The scene is rather a mess, I’m afraid. Just about everything that could be disturbed has been.”

She surveyed the body, and the grass that had been thoroughly trampled around it. “So he wasn’t in this position when he was found.”

“Indeed not.” His voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he leaned toward her. “I shouldn’t think any of these lads has had the least bit of instruction on attending a murder scene.”

Another understanding look, and a grim nod. “I’ll do what I can, then, Constable. Is there a detective here? I best speak with him.”

 _If only for show_ , George agreed silently, and turned around to find Patterson. He and the other lads were still interviewing witnesses, and George called him over.

“Detective Patterson”—George couldn’t bring himself to call a lad half his age “sir”—“I’d like to introduce the Chief Coroner for the City of Toronto, Doctor Julia Ogden.”

Patterson’s mouth fell open before he could collect himself. “Uh, er, uhhh, nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“ _Doctor_ ,” George corrected him, and winked at her.

Patterson cleared his throat. “ _Doctor,_ then. How may I help you?”

“You might have secured the crime scene the moment it is discovered, and left the corpse be until the coroner was provided the opportunity to inspect it _in situ_ ,” she said mildly. “However, that ship has clearly sailed, and so at the moment I suspect _any_ information you could provide about the state in which the body was found might be of use.”

George waited, wondering whether Patterson had even noticed which constables were near the body and could report on what they’d seen. Patterson looked around, desperate, until his eye finally alit on someone in blue.

“Constable Stewart.”

 _Good work, Detective,_ thought George. _Although I wonder if he asked him because he’s already forgotten my name…_

“Yes sir!” Stew yelped.

“What did you see?”

“Well, yesterday we saw this fellow”—he gestured at the body—“on the other side of the tent. He had a bullhorn and he was yelling for people to come see his mermaid mummy. But George decided it was a fake, so we didn’t go. Did you know that mermaids came from Atlantis, sir? And before that they were aliens? And they flew out all over the world and built pyramids and monuments and walls and so forth out of stone before they went back into the sea?”

George opened his mouth to speak, took a breath, and then closed it again for a moment. He shook his head. “Stew. Stew. Where mermaids came from, or where they are now, is of no relevance to the current case. A man is dead, and we’ve a responsibility as members of the Constabulary to bring his killer to justice.”

Stew at least had the sense to look vaguely chastened, while Patterson glanced around nervously to see how the rest of the lads reacted to such an argument. One nodded uncertainly, and then another as an awkward consensus started to form. Crabtree noticed Doctor Ogden’s eyes were twinkling with amusement, and she brought a gloved hand to her mouth to conceal a giggle. He shot her a curious look.

“Very well, Constable Crabtree,” Patterson managed. “And, ah, what were your thoughts about who might have killed him?”

“Thank you, Detective. Now as you may remember from the ride here, late yesterday afternoon Constable Stewart and I witnessed quite the altercation between the deceased and the host of the exhibit housed in the other half of this very tent. And the lads who’ve been interviewing the potential witnesses say there’s been no sign of Doctor Worthington at all this morning.”

“Doctor Worthington?” She caught herself before she called George by his Christian name. “Ah, who is Doctor Worthington, Constable Crabtree?”

“This is his display, Doctor. He was very angry with Mister Smiley here for amplifying his voice with a bullhorn, and whipping the crowd on the other side of the tent into such a frenzy that no one could hear Doctor Worthington over here.”

“So, a prime suspect, then.” She smiled.

George grinned back in agreement. It was so good to see her. Over the years, he supposed, he had come to consider her a dear friend. “My thoughts exactly, Doctor. Although it’s rarely that simple, is it?”

She chuckled. “Well, it certainly isn’t when Detective Murdoch is involved. But perhaps today, with luck, the investigation will be a straightforward one.”

* * *

**Outside the Atlantis tent, 11:15am**

Doctor Ogden, on initial examination, surmised that the cause of death was almost certainly the gunshot wound to his chest. The effects of rigor mortis were starting to contract his facial muscles into a hideous grin. Doctor Ogden, of course, made the inevitable joke about his name, and George gave a genuine laugh—he had been thinking exactly the same thing—then flinched a little in embarrassment.

Doctor Ogden spent more time than usual at the murder scene, helping George guide the constables in the search for whatever evidence was left. Patterson and all the lads were quite flummoxed by her presence—a _lady doctor_ as the _coroner_! A few warning looks and sharp words from George were enough to shut them up, and a few of them meekly did her bidding around the body while George murmured to Patterson that the rest might be dispatched back to control the crowds, or even go back on patrol around the rest of the grounds.

George approached Doctor Ogden as she was overseeing her assistants load the body into the wagon. “Doctor, I wonder whether I might ask a small favour. There is—by some accounts, anyway—another corpse here, and I was hoping you might take a look.”

She was taken aback. “Another body? Was someone else murdered?”

“No, no, no. Not at all. At least, I think not. It’s part of the display on the other side of the tent.”

Comprehension dawned, and Doctor Ogden stifled a giggle. “The ‘mermaid.’”

George supposed he must look quite sheepish. He turned away and said, “Yes, Doctor, the ‘mermaid.’ Now, given the, the rather garish nature of Mister Smiley’s display, not to mention his attire, I, I am virtually certain the mermaid is a fake, as Detective Murdoch suspected.” He lowered his voice. “But there’s someone else I feel I must persuade.”

Doctor Ogden’s eyes grew wide in astonishment and mirth. “George? Are you quite all right? It’s not like you to dismiss the… well, I suppose, the more _unconventional_ sort of answers.”

George reflected for a moment, and gave her a half smile. “I assure you, Doctor, working with Detective Murdoch for as long as I have has inclined me toward scepticism now and then.” His voice fell almost to a whisper. “Particularly when someone is strongly espousing theories that are—that are, well, even more fantastical than my own.” His eyes flicked toward Stew, who was approaching them.

She nearly choked. “My goodness, Geo—” She glanced at Stew as well, and straightened. “Now, yes, Constable Crabtree, there was something else you wished me to see?”

* * *

“So, it’s not real?” Stew asked sadly as the morgue wagon pulled away.

“Not in the slightest,” replied George. He found himself rather impressed by the nerve of someone who would create such an obvious fake: the lower half of a desiccated salmon, clumsily stitched to the top half of a wizened, dried-up primate of some sort. Doctor Ogden surmised it was a lemur, given the size of the eyes.

Patterson, after consulting with George, sent George and Stew back to the station house so that they could begin the more mundane work of the investigation. _Follow the money_ , Brackenreid always said. Where did the victim live? What establishments did he frequent? Was he in debt? What was the provenance of the disturbing little chimera that had attracted and duped so many people? Who else knew it was not genuine? Had he enemies? Was an exhibitgoer particularly vexed by his clear fraud? After the misery of walking about the Ex unable to enjoy the festivities, George found himself rather looking forward to the sort of mundane, constable-level tasks at which he excelled. _I certainly ought to, after more than a decade’s practice_ …

Stew, as he so often did, appeared confused as they walked back north to Queen Street. “George?” he ventured.

“Yes, Stew.”

“When… when you were seeing Doctor Ogden off? You mentioned a Detective Murdoch.”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Is… is he the same chap as the Murdoch you were with up north?”

 _Huh. Give the lad enough time and he can start to work things out._ “None other!”

“He’s a _detective_?” Stew was shocked.

George smiled a little. “Well, you _did_ know that he and I worked together, and I am in fact a constable…”

“Oh. _Ohhhh._ That… that’s why you called him ‘sir’. Ohhhh.” Stew fell quiet for a time, digesting this new piece of information. Now and then George glanced at him to see the wheels turning, until finally, Stew spoke again.

“Wait. What did you mean by telling Doctor Ogden to give your best to Detective Murdoch _this evening_?”

George smiled. “Constable Stewart! Everyone in Toronto knows that Doctor Ogden is Detective Murdoch’s wife.”

Once again, Stew’s mouth fell open. “You mean… her? And _him? Married?”_

“I do indeed! They are most well suited. Truly devoted to each other, more deeply than any other couple I’ve seen. True partners, they are. I might hope for a romance like theirs.” Stew looked at him askance, and George was suddenly very uncomfortable. “Of my own, of course. With a lady. Who is not Doctor Ogden.” He flushed slightly. “Right, then. So, ah, tell me then, Constable Stewart. What have you learned so far about conducting an investigation?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Stew.

**Station House No. Six, 2:30pm**

“Constable Crabtree!” Patterson called as he emerged from the inspector’s office.

“Yes, sir!” It was so strange to bark the reply to a different detective. Well, _acting_ detective.

“The lads told me how well you did today with this affair at the Exhibition, and I hear you’re about to crack it. A job well done, lad.”

 _Lad_. George resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _I’ve been a member of the Constabulary a decade and some longer than he has._

George had long ago done everything he could to make peace with his permanently diminished rank in the Constabulary. He was very good at his work, and his ambition these days was directed toward his writing. But still, it galled him to be called “lad” by some… well, _lad_.

Patterson continued, oblivious to Crabtree’s bristling. “Now, it sounds like most of the regular lads will be back in within a day or two. But none of them will know nearly so much about this case as you do. So I’ve marvellous news! I’ve spoken with your inspector, and he’s delighted—‘bloody chuffed’ were his words—to let you stay on here until the murder is solved.”

George gave a wan smile as Stew pounded on his back in congratulations. “Are, are you sure, sir? I mean, I’m certain your own investigative abilities are top-notch, and I couldn’t dream of pushing you out of the way…”

“Nonsense! I’ve four other investigations to manage. We’re most fortunate to have you here right now!”

George closed his eyes and exhaled. “Very well, then, sir, I suppose I’m here until this is wrapped up.”

“You are indeed!”

Stew clapped his hands together in glee. “George! I get to work with you some more!”

George tried not to sigh. _Lucky me._

“Right, then. Have you any idea how to track down the identity of someone using an alias?”

* * *

**23 Noble Street, Parkdale, 6:30pm**

“Worthington”’s real identity was almost absurdly easy to find. George needed only contact the offices of the Exhibition to determine that the front half of the Atlantis tent was registered to a Mister Joseph Kelly, of Parkdale. Stew and George stood in front of the door to what had once been a very fine house, but now looked as if no one had paid it any mind since at least 1875. At least one board in the front porch creaked alarmingly underfoot, feeling as if it might give way at any moment, and the entire dwelling was several years overdue for a fresh coat of paint. _It would appear the gentleman we seek has fallen on rather hard times…_

“All right, Stew, now let’s get our man,” George whispered to his eager, terrified companion. Stew nodded mutely as George gestured with his head toward the side of the house. “Go make sure he doesn’t run out the back door.”

Stew’s eyes grew huge, and he froze. “ _Me?_ ”

“Constable Stewart! _Yes,_ you! _Now_ , if you please!” George hissed. “We’ve a murderer to apprehend!” Another hesitant nod before Stew very reluctantly forced himself toward the narrow passage between the houses. George almost envied the younger man, getting off the rotting porch back onto solid ground.

George waited for Stew to disappear, and then placed a hand on his nightstick and knocked. A sad, weary-looking woman with a baby on the way and another on her hip finally answered. George thought her dress would not have looked out of place on one of the fashionable ladies in the St. John’s of his youth. _At least, it would have before all that mending. How strange for a woman in Parkdale._

“Mrs. Kelly?” he ventured. He watched as she realized she had opened her door to a police officer, and he caught it before she could shut it in his face. “It’s all right, ma’am, I’m Constable Crabtree. You’re not in any trouble, ma’am. We just need to speak with your husband.”

“He’s not here, _Constable,_ ” she nearly shouted, and glanced over her shoulder. Her voice was high with fright.

George gave her his best _we both know you’re lying_ look, just before he heard a commotion inside. An overturned chair, perhaps? Loud footsteps and a slam of a door, followed by the wails of at least three more young children from within the house.

“Stew! He’s coming out that way!” George shouted, already running toward the back of the house as Mrs. Kelly disappeared back inside, the door only narrowly missing the wailing child pulling at her leg.

A loud scuffle from farther down the passage, then a strangled yelp and a thud. George rounded the corner to see a panting George Stewart on the ground, losing his grip on Kelly’s ankle as Kelly used his other foot to kick at Stew’s hand.

Crabtree took the would-be fugitive down in an instant. (He would admit it only reluctantly, but he secretly enjoyed a good flying tackle now and then.) “Mister Joseph Kelly, alias Doctor Zachariah Worthington, you are under arrest for the murder of Mister Cornelius J. Smiley,” he declared to the pinned man as he wrestled his arms behind him and shackled his wrists.

“I… didn’t… kill him!” Kelly gasped, winded by his collision with the dirt. “It… wasn’t me!”

“I’m sure we’ll hear _all_ about it in the interview room, Mister Kelly. Now you are coming with us to the station house.” Kelly grunted as George heaved him up from the ground and began to march him out toward the street. “Stew, I’ll need you to go to the nearest police telephone and ask them to send a wagon. If, if you’ve forgotten the address, well, look for it on your way out.”

As Stew scrambled away George continued to march Kelly along, his wife again emerged from the house, shouting ferociously at her husband. “You can’t do anything right. How could you think you could support a growing family with a carnival show about ridiculous things no one cares about? You should have gotten out of that ridiculous alien business and gone to work for my father at the law firm instead of killing your rival and trying to steal his display!”

“I didn’t kill him!” Kelly sputtered, and spat a bit of blood onto the ground.

“Oh, no? Then _why do you have this gun?_ ”

She rustled her skirt and produced a firearm, holding it with shaky hands. “I was brushing off your jacket and I found it in the pocket. You used this gun to kill Smiley!”

“No, no, no!” Kelly cried, shaking his head in frantic denial. “No, you’ve got it wrong!”

“Joseph, you _bastard,_ you _killed_ a man!” she shrieked, ignoring him. “Now what am I to do? With you in jail and me with babies to feed? You _bastard!_ You selfish, lazy, murderous _bastard!_ You kill a man and ruin our lives? I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” she screamed, taking aim at her husband’s chest.

“Mrs. Kelly, no!” exclaimed George as his heart skipped a beat. He holding up his hands in surrender. “Mrs. Kelly, wait. Don’t do this. Put the gun down, ma’am.”

“But he’s a _bastard!_ A low-life, two-bit murderer who’s too stubborn to get a real job and support his family like a _man!_ We’d all be better off without him!”

George drew a breath. “Please, Mrs. Kelly. If you do this, you’ll hang, and your children won’t have a mother. Don’t do this, Mrs. Kelly. Please. Don’t make your children orphans.” He gestured slowly toward the floor, and continued, his tone low and soothing. “Please, Mrs. Kelly. Just put the gun down. Don’t make a decision we’ll all regret. I’d hate to see you go to the noose.”

“The _noose?_ ” The wearied woman hesitated—she had clearly not thought this all the way through—and began to blink back tears. “Well… maybe… I…” Her hands started to shake.

All at once Stew reappeared, panting. At the sight of the gun he went white as a sheet and cried out.

Mrs. Kelly flinched, startled enough that she lost her grip. Fearing the worst, George watched in horror as the revolver fell to the porch.

George was right to be afraid. A split second after the moment of impact, the gun went off. Stew gasped, went even whiter, and dropped to the ground like a rock.

There was a stunned silence.

“Oh, God,” breathed George Crabtree.

* * *

**Station House No. Six, 7:15pm**

Constable Crabtree turned the key in the lock, and turned on his heel without a word. He could not get away from the cells and the raucous Kellys quickly enough. The red-faced couple had not stopped shouting or bawling since George had cuffed them both to the porch railing and gone to see to Stew. The ride back to the station house was excruciating, as there was no room for him on the wagon save for in the back. His ears were throbbing from the din of their caterwauling, and he was nursing the start of what promised to be a ferocious headache. He wanted nothing more than to go home, but there were still two interviews to conduct, and someone had to figure out what to do with the children…

And Stew _._ He could not decide whether to be furious with him, or sympathetic, or amused. _Probably a measure of each,_ he supposed. A single gunshot had just ended the man’s nascent career, and George felt guilty about finding humour in the poor lad’s downfall.

Somehow, George Stewart had managed to bluff his way into the Constabulary— _his father-in-law must have influential friends,_ Crabtree surmised—despite a deathly fear of guns. The shot from the dropped revolver had so startled him that he’d fainted dead away. Though Crabtree was able to revive him quickly, there was no way the hapless lad could ever hope to be retained by the Constabulary now (as if there had been much chance before).

 _Poor sod_ , as Brackenreid would say. _I wonder what he’s going to do._

George decided to let the Kellys stew behind bars for the afternoon while he tracked down whatever else he could about them before their interviews. Other than owning their house, inherited from his late father, they were nearly destitute. By the time Mister Kelly was brought to the interview room George was well armed.

Mister Kelly sat across the table from George and Acting Detective Patterson, deflated and yet somehow still defiant, his worn suit appearing even shabbier than it had at the Ex. (George thought it likely he had only the one.)

Over the course of more than an hour, George drew on what he had learned by watching Detective Murdoch over the years, and pried a remarkable wealth of information out of the hapless suspect. Patterson contributed little, save repeating George’s questions now and then, and George found himself getting quite fed up with the man. He hoped he would soon have a chance to conduct an interview at his own station house, without such “help.”

At first, he maintained that he was a professor of some renown, having departed the faculty of a university in England in a huff. To hear him tell it, his genius had gone sadly unrecognized by the philistines who had sent him on his way. His bombast turned to stunned silence, though, when George pushed forward the diplomas that had hung proudly in Kelly’s display in the tent at the Ex, and laid a telegram on top of them.

George had taken particular note of those certificates bearing, ah, _Doctor Worthington’s_ name. The telegram, just arrived from the Metropolitan Police in London, was quite lengthy (George did not wish to contemplate how much it had cost), and it was full of bad news for Mister Kelly. The institution that had supposedly granted the degree had closed nearly ten years before the date of graduation listed on the document. Worse for the good “doctor,” there seemed to exist no proof whatsoever that his ersatz employer had ever existed. And a clerk recalled several complaints filed by the real Zachariah Worthington, of St. Pancras, London, that a Michael Kelly, of Toronto in the colonies, was impersonating him. (George did not mention that no written record could be found of these complaints, but it was this clue that confirmed that Kelly was their man.)

Kelly was flummoxed. George pressed on.

Anything left of Kelly’s bluster vanished completely when George read out the rest of the telegram. Kelly had been arrested twice overseas, for acts of vandalism at Stonehenge and the Great Pyramids, but for some reason the charges had mysteriously disappeared. George prodded him, rather loudly, for an explanation. Did this have something to do with Mister Smiley’s murder?

George watched Kelly closely as the suspect protested in indignant denial. Of course not, he assured George. George, channeling Detective Murdoch, continued to push. Mister Kelly, he declared, murdered Mister Smiley because Smiley had learned of the vandalism and was threatening to expose him. Perhaps Mister Smiley had some sort of connection to whoever had covered up the arrests?

When George threatened the noose, Kelly’s remaining composure vanished as well. He started to shout at George, pounding on the table and vehemently denying that he was a murderer. Finally he seemed cowed enough that he decided to tell his version of the story. George listened carefully: he was unconvinced.

Kelly spun quite a yarn. There had been a patron, a well-connected widow with a large fortune that she wished to spend before she passed, who had taken a shine to Mr. Kelly’s theories. She had funded his expeditions to famous archaeological sites (much to Mrs. Kelly’s chagrin—she did not appreciate being left at home with children both born and on the way), and the patron had somehow pulled strings both times Mr. Kelly was arrested, to ensure that the charges were quietly dismissed.

George’s wild imagination immediately turned to visions of what his life could be were he lucky enough to secure such an arrangement. _I should certainly travel to the Pyramids and the Valley of the Kings (not to engage in vandalism, of course!). The catacombs of Paris, without a doubt. Perhaps I might also visit South America…_ His head started to swim with the possibilities, at least until Kelly began to speak again.

Things for “Doctor Worthington” had been going relatively well until his patron took ill and died. She was quite elderly, after all. Not wishing to alarm his wife, Kelly had quickly run up debts trying to continue his expeditions: he was convinced that gathering further evidence for his theories would doubtless be enough to convince someone new to fund his efforts. Mister Smiley’s constant hollering at the shared display tent had badly affected his income, yes, perhaps even scaring away potential funders, but Kelly had _not_ killed him. On that point, he was most insistent. 

It was at this moment that a constable beckoned to Patterson, who stood up and left the room. George was relieved. It was most difficult to conduct a proper interview under the eye of a woefully underqualified and inexperienced supervisor.

Even after Patterson was gone, Kelly continued to maintain his innocence in Smiley’s murder. His defence was clear and unwavering: when he arrived at the Exhibition and the tent for the morning, he had stumbled upon Mister Smiley’s already dead remains. When he saw him lying there, he was overcome by anger at the thought of all the money Smiley had cost him, and decided he was entitled to whatever he could find in the man’s pockets before he fled. He took the gun as well, for it was just lying there, and, not knowing who had murdered his rival, he was so fearful for his own life that he decided to avail himself of the protection at hand. Perhaps he had not thought things through, but he swore to George that on his mother’s grave, he was not a murderer. Indeed, he hardly considered himself a thief, for he had only been retrieving what was rightfully his.

The door opened and Patterson re-entered, taking over the interview and all but dismissing George. George’s annoyance only grew on hearing what Patterson had to say: Mrs. Kelly had apparently confessed to the murder, committed because she was so distressed by the income lost to Mister Smiley’s bellowing that she decided to eliminate the bellows.

George was shocked, and started to speak before Patterson shushed him and glanced up at the window. _Oh, dear._

An older man with a spectacular mustache, mutton chops, and a suit at least ten years out of fashion was peering in. George immediately picked up on Patterson’s deferential air. _That must be Detective Bertram._ George swallowed, remembering Murdoch’s advice to make a good impression. He supposed Bertram’s first notice of him should not involve open insubordination, and so he stayed quiet.

Patterson began to badger Mister Kelly, insisting that his wife was the murderer. George had to admit that if Patterson was lying to extract a confession, he was quite convincing. Indeed, when Patterson began to shout at Kelly that the mother of his children was bound for the gallows, Kelly began to weep. Between sobs, he declared that he wished to change his story, and would sign a confession: he had indeed murdered Mister Smiley, with a gun he had inherited from his father. If anyone were to hang, he would. His children needed their mother, and she must go free.

George no longer believed Mister Kelly to be telling the truth, but Patterson—and Bertram—lapped up his confession like a hungry cat drinking milk from a saucer. George grimaced and, biting his tongue, considered what to do while still under Bertram’s watchful eye. A tearful Kelly was escorted from the room to make way for his wife.

The interview with Mrs. Kelly was much briefer. She stated flatly that she had not known about the death of her husband’s patron, and she was equally resolute that Mr. Kelly had been home with her all night, and that any noise whatsoever in the house after the children had gone to sleep would certainly have awakened young Joshua, whose new teeth meant that everyone in the house was sleeping poorly these days. She insisted that as she had had no part whatsoever in Mister Smiley’s death, obviously she should be free to go.

Her shock was evident when George pointed out that he had witnessed her commit several indictable offences, not the least of which was obstructing a peace officer in the execution of his duty.[i] She could go to jail for ten years for that, he informed her. Worse yet, Patterson went on, her husband had confessed to murder and would surely hang.

Once again, Mrs. Kelly began to wail. George rubbed his forehead as Patterson gestured for one of the constables to take her back to the cells. The acting detective nearly danced a little jig when she was gone: he had solved his first murder! Now he was nearly guaranteed the chance to keep the title of Detective, with all the perquisites and higher salary that entailed!

George debated whether to argue. He had solved his first murder nearly ten years before, and he had only ever risen as high as Constable First Class six years after that. (He tried never to think of his rank these days.) And he was not at all convinced by Kelly’s confession, despite Patterson’s eagerness to accept it. But he had no evidence that anyone else had committed the murder, and this was not his station house, and now that Bertram was back, they would be eager to close the case and send him home. He sighed.

Crabtree emerged back into the bullpen to find Stew racing back and forth in front of a desk, the Kellys’ four children sitting in order of height along the edge. They kicked harmlessly at him and giggled as he clowned in front of them to keep them from jumping down and running away. George was surprised to see Stew looking so cheerful: it was clear he truly enjoyed playing with the wee ones. He looked far more at home with them than he ever did as a constable. For a moment, Crabtree was tempted to see whether Stew could take the children home, at least until all this with their parents was sorted out. _It might well be better for them than time in an orphanage…_

George’s musings were in vain: one of the lads was leading in a kindly-looking older lady. “Constable Crabtree? There’s someone here to see you,” the lad announced. _Good Lord, has that young fellow’s voice even broken yet?_

It was a Mrs. Stevenson, from the Children’s Aid Society. George welcomed her and introduced her to the children. The younger two were shy, clinging to each other, but the older two took to her immediately, and the younger ones warmed as soon as she handed each of them a square of chocolate. She reassured George that the children would be well looked after, perhaps at the House of Providence if their parents were both incarcerated for any duration, and then she shepherded them away.

Stew seemed genuinely saddened to watch the children go. “They’re nice kids,” he said, wistful. George felt a brief pang as well: _why can’t they go home with Stew?_ He paused to reflect for a moment. _Although I do suppose it was a bit ridiculous to think four children should go home with a young man without any consultation of his wife..._

“You’re planning to raise a family, then, Stew?” George inquired.

“Well, like I said, we’ve been trying, but nothing’s happened yet. Moira’s pa and ma aren’t so happy about it. Moira neither.” A sadness clouded his face.

George gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Stew wasn’t such a bad chap. “I can’t imagine you’re particularly excited about it yourself.”

Stew looked at him, stricken. “Well, I can’t _get_ excited, is the problem,” he hissed a little too loudly.

All conversation in the bullpen stopped, and all heads turned toward Stew. The poor lad was crimson. George could hardly fathom how the lad’s humiliation could be more complete.

George watched in horror as Stew snatched a few things from his own desk and sprinted toward the door. “I resign! I quit! I’ll drop off the uniform!” he called over his shoulder as he fled. “Goodbye!”

* * *

[i] _The Criminal Code of Canada_ , 1892, section 144.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things look up for Stew, and for George as well.

**The Wheat Sheaf Tavern, 9:00pm**

Stew was too fast for anyone to catch him, but George was still able to deduce his former partner’s whereabouts fairly quickly: he considered where he himself might go after such mortification, and concluded that he would likely seek out a local watering hole. The lads in the bullpen mentioned a few popular ones, and Patterson gave his blessing for George to write the reports about the Kellys in the morning. So it was that George soon found himself headed toward the Wheat Sheaf Tavern at King and Bathurst.

He thought about staying in his uniform, but decided to take the few moments to change back into his civilian clothes before he left the station house. The Wheat Sheaf was well-known as an Irish Catholic haunt, and as he was neither Irish nor Catholic, George decided it would be wise to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

After a short walk up Bathurst Street he arrived at his destination, and pushed open the door. Suspicious stares greeted him. He shrank a bit inside his jacket, and gave a nervous smile in acknowledgment to the barkeep before he scanned the room. Sure enough, there was Stew at the bar, two empty pint glasses in front of him already and another well underway. George was a little awed by the lad’s speed.

He proceeded through the thick tobacco smoke hanging in the air, his eyes stinging, and made his way to the barstool next to Stew. He signalled to the barkeep for a pint, and then laid a hand on Stew’s hunched back.

“Stew?”

The younger man glared up at him, red-eyed as he clutched the handle of his beer glass. “Leave me alone.”

“I… I should think that’s unwise, given your apparent state. Are you… are you quite all right, Stew?”

Stew’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head. He was clearly embarrassed, and furious as well. He took another gulp of beer.

“I suppose not.” George’s voice was low, and gentle. He sat and waited, and gave the lad another pat on the back. “But you will be.”

He wondered what else to say. He certainly was not going to mention Stew’s unfortunate confession regarding his marriage, but he could address what had sparked the crisis that had brought them here. He spent some time crafting a sentence before he spoke it, but needn’t have worried: Stew interrupted before he could begin.

“I hate guns. Can’t stand the things,” Stew announced. “Scared the bejesus out of me when that one went off.”

 _I suspected as much,_ thought George. “Have you never been near gunfire before? On the farms?”

Stew closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. He swallowed hard. “Sure I have. I hate ‘em. I hate ‘em so much. My pa shot my dog after it bit the neighbour kid. I saw the whole thing. Kid was taunting him! Stole his food, and hit him in the face! He deserved the bite, and worse! Queenie was a good dog! She was a good dog! He couldn’t’ve killed her if he’d had no gun!”

George winced in sympathy. He himself knew well what it meant to have a faithful canine companion, and in a way he admired the lad’s restraint. He did not like to fathom what he might have done had someone ever deliberately harmed Violet

He caught Stew’s eye. “I, I’m afraid you’d encounter rather a lot of guns in our line of work. Hear them, too.”

Stew flinched. “I… I’d rather not. I can’t bear to hear them. I just hear her last, pitiful whines... I… I can’t bring myself to touch them, either.”

“Well, Stew, it’s part of the job,” George told him, not unsympathetically. A thought struck him, and he straightened. “Wait. How did you get through your training day without touching a gun?”

Stew reddened. “I… I didn’t.”

George’s eyes grew huge. “Stew! Every member of the Constabulary must be trained in the use of a gun, and in loading and storing them safely! You might endanger one of your fellow lads—or _yourself_ , for that matter—if you can’t even hear one without passing out cold! It’s a basic requirement for this job!”

Misery hung over Stew like a raincloud. “I know, George. I know. And Moira’s father will have my hide if I can’t keep this job, and there’s nothing else here that pays a man like me this much. If I lose this job I lose everything.”

“But… but how did you even get it?”

“I lied, George. I’m not really a constable.”

George was stunned. He gestured up and down at Stew’s uniform and choked out, “How?”

“I’m only a provisional constable. They’re so desperate for men right now they’ll take anyone. And the word from Moira’s pa didn’t hurt—like I told you, he’s good friends with the regular inspector here. Told Patterson he’d have him fired if he didn’t give me work.”

George raised his palms to the top of his head and laced his fingers, his eyes blazing. He exhaled sharply before he lowered his hands to his hips. “ _Stew_. I, I hate to be the one to break the news, but you’re… well, you’re an _astonishingly_ poor match for this job. There are _training records_ , Stew, and what would you do if the station house had an audit and it came out that you’ve been enforcing the law without being the slightest bit qualified as a constable? And if you’re of such a nervous disposition that you faint dead away at the sound of gunfire… Stew, if you don’t leave the Constabulary with your dignity intact and find another vocation _immediately,_ you’ll be out in disgrace before your father-in-law can sneeze. This…” he trailed off as he glanced at Stew’s uniform again, and gentled his tone. “This isn’t a sustainable arrangement, Stew. I’m sorry. It’s only a matter of time ‘til you’re found out.”

Stew’s lip was quivering during George’s entire scolding, and when George paused to take a breath, Stew started to cry. George winced, and sighed. _I should have known._ “Stew. Now, Stew.” He laid a hand on the lad’s juddering shoulder, looking away briefly as he tried to suppress a sob.

“I’ve ruined it all. I never should have come to Toronto.” Stew’s misery was palpable. “I should never have put on this uniform.” He tore at the top button of his tunic, but George gently stopped him.

“Stew. You’ve made a mistake. We all make mistakes. Lord knows I’ve made my share. And believe me, I’ve paid dearly for some of them, I have indeed.” He swallowed. “And one thing I can tell you… is that life goes on. You’re young. Mistakes that seem huge now will be an amusing tale over a pint at the pub someday, I promise you. Perhaps even this pub. Right now you feel you’ll never leave the doghouse you’re in at the moment. And I’m sure you put yourself there with all good intentions, mind you!”

“I did!” choked Stew, his eyes wide. “And now Mister O’Connell will make Moira leave me, and I can’t, I just can’t live without her! I love her so much! And I can’t have her if I can’t be a copper!”

“Stew. Stew. Listen to me.” George struggled to think of kind things to say to the gormless young man. _Bright? No. Witty? Definitely not. Brave?_ He managed not to snort. _He’s utterly gullible, skittish, generally irritating…_

“Now, Stew,” he continued. “Stew, you’re a remarkably strong and hardworking young man. I’m sure you could find some sort of honest work that would provide for you and your wife.”

“But _what_ work, George?” Stew looked as if he were ready to burst into tears.

George stroked his chin for a moment. “I, I suppose you could take up masonry. Strong young lads are always needed on building crews. The construction trade is booming in the city these days!”

Stew gazed back in incomprehension. “Masonry?”

“Building. Out of stone or brick, or clay. You know, buildings, walls, that sort of thing.”

Stew was incredulous. “I could _do_ that?”

“Of course you could, Stew! They need strong men, and”—George hesitated briefly—“as long as you can follow directions you’ll be fine! And the pay’s not bad either. I’ve a chum who left the Constabulary after a year to become a bricklayer. I could introduce you.”

It took some time for Stew to take in what George was saying, but when he finally understood, he was ecstatic. He leapt toward George and embraced him in a bear hug, crying again and again, “You’ve saved me, George! You’ve saved me!”

George gasped for air: Stew’s grip was viselike. “I, I can’t breathe, Stew. Let… go! Let me go!”

Stew released him as quickly as he had grabbed him, and began laughing. “You’ve saved me!” he nearly shouted. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you!”

“Well, mind that you don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched, Stew. I can introduce you, but I certainly can’t hire you myself.”

Stew’s expression turned quizzical. “Chickens? Bricklayers hatch chickens? Do they build the coop themselves?”

George backed up, and rubbed his temples. _Yes, the lad is definitely suited to the more physical vocations._ “No, Stew. It was just an expression. Now you’ve a resignation letter to write. I suppose you’re going to want my help?”

* * *

**September 3, 1905, Station House No. Six, 8:00am**

George was in far better humour this morning. He had slept well, and awakened refreshed. Miss Pratt, in an unusual display of kindness, had prepared his favourite breakfast, toutons and baked beans, recalling his declaration some weeks before that beans and the fried bread dough with molasses were something from home that he dearly missed. A suspect was in custody, and Acting Detective Patterson had assured him that once the Atlantis case was solved, he could return to Station House Four and familiar ground. He needed make only one more trip to the west end to complete the reports, and then he would be home free. He did feel a slight pang of guilt at being relieved: surely Station Six could not continue much longer while staffed by lads even dimmer than Higgins and George Stewart. But surely, he decided, the ailing lads should be feeling better by now, and back to work very soon.

He once again rode the streetcar, but this time in his civilian clothes, with his uniform and helmet in a sack over his shoulder. (He hoped that he might be afforded part of the day to visit the Exhibition to see the sights, rather than to police the rowdies.) He and Higgins had planned to make the journey together, but a panicked Higgins had telephoned George’s boarding house at 7:00 to advise that he was running late—something about driving Miss Newsome home after a festive evening, being invited in for a nightcap, and then jolting awake at sunrise in her sitting room. Henry did not wish to drive all the way from Mimico back to Corktown before returning to the Exhibition, and George could hardly wait for him without being dreadfully late himself. He supposed it was just as well that he would not start his day subjected to incessant, starry-eyed drivel about the dotty Ruthie-Poo.

As for McNabb, he’d no idea where the lad was. They had made no arrangements to travel together that day, and so George had boarded the King car alone.

He took a deep breath of the crisp air just before he stepped into Station Six for what he hoped was the last time. There were a few faces in the bullpen that he did not recognise, to his relief. _Good. Some of the regular lads must be back already_. _I needn’t feel bad about leaving._

He headed to the locker room to change into his uniform, then returned with a spring in his step to the bullpen. Before he could sit down, though, Patterson beckoned him into the office. Bertram sat at the desk, looking both authoritative and amused. Once again, George was mesmerised by the spectacular mutton chops. He had not seen any as impressive in years.

“You must be Detective Bertram, sir. I’m Constable George Crabtree, from Station House Four.” George swallowed. Murdoch and Brackenreid were counting on him to come across favourably.

“I am indeed, Constable… Crabtree, is it? Constable Patterson here has given a glowing report of your work. Congratulations on apprehending a dangerous killer! It sounds like you were quite brilliant! Tell me we can keep you here at Station Six!”

The detective’s warm enthusiasm seemed genuine, and George was taken aback. He was unused to such effusive praise. “I, I, I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I’m quite happy at Station Four. Thank you, though! It’s been a pleasure.”

“And I see Constable Stewart has taken his leave. Pity. Bit of a dullard, that one, but a hard worker.”

“Aye, that he is, sir. Strong young chap. I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

“Constable!” Bertram exclaimed, startling him as he gestured at the bullpen. “As you can see, some of the lads are feeling sufficiently recovered to be back at work. I understand you needed only complete some paperwork before Acting Detective Patterson was to authorize you to depart our dear station and return to your own.”

George nodded mutely, unsure how to reply.

“Well, son, today is your lucky day! Once you hand me those reports, you are free to leave Station Six. And one hardly need inform your Inspector Brackenreid that you were off duty for the rest of the day. Consider the time off my thanks for your hard work and quick resolution to the case. I shall telephone him tomorrow to release you back to him. Until then, your time is your own.”

A wide grin of disbelief spread across George’s face. “The whole day, sir? A, a, a day off with pay?”

“Indeed, son, and get out there before I change my mind!” The jovial older gentleman beamed at him. “Just get your work done and you’re on your way. Shoo!”

“I, I don’t know what to say, sir! Thank you! I shall have those reports to you at once!”

George was buoyant. He returned to the desk he had been using, and glanced around before he made a brief telephone call to Nina. Perhaps they could have the day at the Ex he’d wished for after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**September 3, 1905, Canadian National Exhibition**

The day was perfect. The weather was lovely, a pleasant sixty-five degrees, and the air was crisp. A slight breeze rustled through leaves that were just beginning to turn, and the lake was a particularly glorious shade of blue.

Nina had arrived in a mere thirty minutes after George’s call: her brother had wished to visit the Exhibition himself, to take in the Machinery Hall and the transportation, and Nina had availed herself of the ride. Sam graciously took his leave of the couple as soon as Nina found George, saying that friends were expecting him. The two men shook hands, and then Sam was gone.

George would have been giddy to find himself at the Ex with no responsibilities except to his girl, had he been able to stop thinking about Mister Kelly. He wished he could believe the man’s confession. Everything would be so much simpler if he could. Bertram and Patterson considered the case solved, and its resolution meant an idyllic day and evening at the Ex with his sweetheart, and then a triumphant return to Station House Four. But Kelly’s story was full of holes, even though he had confessed, clearly to protect his wife. Could someone else have killed Mister Smiley, and set him up for it? George sighed and rubbed his forehead.

He was keen to distract himself. He suggested starting the day with a stroll through the magnificent Crystal Palace, the centre of the entire Industrial Exhibition. He had imagined they would then visit the Horticulture Building—apparently Nina had promised Ruth that she would look at her roses—and then on to the new Art Gallery building, before a lunch of hot hamburgers and kettle corn.

Nina, however, proposed a slightly different itinerary. What if they began with the horticultural exhibits, and then moved on to the Art Gallery? Since it was brand new, it was likely to grow more crowded as the day wore on. Then they could have lunch, and spend a leisurely afternoon in the Crystal Palace and the Transportation Building, looking at new vehicles and machines, before heading along to the midway for rides and games, and possibly a visit to the dogs and the sheep. Perhaps they might even catch one of the sulky races if the lineups for the grandstand were not too long.

George acceded quickly, surmising that the new route might reduce the chances of running into Sam—he hardly wished his sweetheart’s brother nearby, although experience told him that Nina would scarcely care. And Sam seemed content not to meddle in his sister’s affairs. And he was partial to both dogs and sheep, and always keen to see the giant vegetables.

The flowers were spectacular, and their scent was sweet and heady. Ruth’s “Crimson Sunrise” hybrid tea rose was indeed beautiful, and Nina remarked that she did not find Erma Birch’s entry in the competition nearly so attractive. George felt some tension drain from his shoulders as he and Nina strolled, arm in arm, and inhaled the lovely fragrance. And the vegetables were enormous and impressive, as always.

As they approached the new Art Gallery building (fireproof, George had read!), George pointed out that the older one, built only three years before, was now the Graphic Arts and Photography Building. He had passed it many times on his patrols through the grounds, and he might like to peek inside there as well, given his own photographic interest and skill.

Nina was curious as to why he had not mentioned the displays of inventions in the Manufacturers’ Building. Truth be told, he confided, since he started working with Detective Murdoch, he had found that others’ inventions were almost never of such ingenious design and execution as those of his superior, and he found it a mite frustrating to see others profit from their innovations while the detective’s remained largely within Station Four. Nina just chuckled.

They proceeded into the Art Gallery, Nina noting the Greco-Roman style and the tall Ionic columns at the entrance, and for a moment it was almost as if they were back in Paris. Nina had helped George learn to appreciate art there, and the sight of all the paintings on these walls brought a sense of longing, mixed with deep gratitude. He had loved it overseas, yes, but there was something deeply comforting in seeing such a sight in a city he was fortunate to call home.

The building’s design was striking, with two pavilions connected by a large, sunlit gallery space. Nina was excited to learn, as she leafed through the exhibition’s catalogue, that at least two-thirds of the work on display was from outside the country. For a moment George was concerned that looking at art was going to consume the rest of the day.

To his delight, he need not have worried. He was impressed by Nina’s focus and her ability to avoid distraction as they made their way through the building’s galleries. This was a very different Nina from the one with him on ships and in Paris—instead of slow meanderings and shameless flirting, this Nina moved swiftly from one destination to the next, demonstrating a clear sense of their limited time. He was so struck that he asked whether she was in a hurry. She assured him that though she might return at any time before the exhibition closed, George was very lucky to be off duty for this single day, and she wanted to make the most of it for him. George decided he loved her more than ever.

The exit from the gallery building was at the opposite end from where they had come in, and they found themselves standing on the east porch. They wandered back toward the main road, cutting between the gallery and the Dairy Building, and George was greeted by a startling sight. He stopped short, and Nina nearly tripped.

It was the Atlantis tent, wide open and welcoming visitors. He had not expected the Atlantis tent to still be there at all, let alone open to visitors, given that one of its exhibitors was murdered and the other in jail for the crime. He peered in to the displays, and saw that the divider in the middle of the tent was gone, effectively combining the two displays into a single one.

George did not recognize the man in a nondescript suit who was shouting at passersby to watch the short films and visit the “mermaid.” Nina felt him stiffen.

“George? What’s wrong?”

George looked around, and then drew her to the side of the Dairy Building, almost out of sight of the tent. “Nina, I fear our pleasant day together may have just met an unfortunate interruption.”

“Not an end, I hope?”

“We shall have to see.” He hoped she could not tell that his heart was sinking. Alas: perhaps it was too much to hope for such a day off so soon after their heady, glorious time in the City of Light.

George gave Nina a quick summary of his past two days, to her incredulity. “So both of these fellows who were exhibiting in that tent were frauds, but in different ways? And they were rivals? And this Kelly fellow, or his wife, was so incensed by Mister Smiley’s bullhorn that one of them _murdered_ him?”

“That’s the theory Station Six is working from at the moment, yes,” George agreed. “Now, here’s the interesting thing. I, I had anticipated that the Atlantis tent would be, well, _closed_ , if not gone entirely. But it’s still here, and _open._ And I don’t recognise the fellow manning it at all. And believe you me”—he tapped his forehead gravely—“I certainly have had the opportunity to observe who was manning _all_ the attractions on the grounds.”

“And it’s only one booth now! Had you not said it was two?” Nina was becoming intrigued.

George leaned over and squinted at the tent. He found himself wishing for Detective Murdoch’s device for peering around corners, although he did not wish to risk “borrowing” Inspector Brackenreid’s opera glasses again. The inspector still groused about that, ten years on.

“I, I tell you, Nina, it was two separate booths! And the two sides were very different from each other. Mister Kelly was billing himself as a ‘Doctor Worthington,’ and displaying forged credentials to make himself look like some sort of professor. And, and Mister Smiley’s half looked like something straight from the gaudiest part of the midway! And now all mention of ‘Doctor Worthington’ is gone, and the name ‘Cornelius Smiley’ has been painted out and replaced by… ah… Zacharias Axiosidou. Greek, if I’m not mistaken. And, and it would appear that this fellow is portraying himself as some sort of authority on Atlantis, owing to the country of his birth.” George pulled his head back from around the corner, and looked earnestly at Nina. “I, I wonder…”

“This does raise questions, George.” Nina’s eyes twinkled. “And I’ve a question for you.”

“Yes, Nina?”

“You said you’ve not seen him before. Why are we hiding?”

George straightened. “I… I’m not sure. Perhaps we shouldn’t wish him to see us staring at him?”

Nina chuckled. “I suppose. And one more question. Who is this man, anyway? Could he have some relationship with the men who were here? I dare say it would be quite a tidy arrangement, if one could get away with it—eliminate one man, frame another, and claim both of their business ventures? Do you think perhaps… this Zacharias might be your real murderer?”

George’s eyes bulged at her before he squeezed them shut in resignation. “Oh, Nina. Of _course_. Of _course._ ”

She was smiling broadly when he looked at her again. “So I’ve just solved your case?”

* * *

George decided the best strategy to learn about this Mister Axiosidou was for him and Nina to act as typical fairgoers, feigning interest in the Atlantis displays as they inquired about the previous exhibitors. He was torn between wishing to act in an official capacity to bring the new man to the station house for an interview, and wishing to stay as uninvolved as possible so that he could alert the lads who _were_ on duty, and allow them to handle the matter themselves.

He quietly explained his approach to Nina, and she agreed and beckoned him toward the lineup for the tent. They stood for quite some time, listening to Axiosidou prattle on in heavily accented broken English about Atlantis to the assembled crowd.

Axiosidou stood at a podium, shouting through a bullhorn (was it Smiley’s?). George was struck by how ridiculous the man’s accent sounded, at least to his ear. _Perhaps this is just what Greek people sound like?_

As he listened, he stifled a laugh of surprise. The man was mangling what had once been George’s own words, at least before the _Telegraph_ had mangled them:

Each monument is disconnected figure from past. Yet some common origin join them together. The tools for carve and move giant stones? Very advanced. Knowledge and skills only from Atlantis!

A closer examination of the display inside the tent revealed a bizarre chimera of the theories espoused by Smiley and Kelly. Apparently the so-called mermaid in Smiley’s display was now one of the aliens borne to Earth on the flying saucers, and the marks on the giant monuments of the world were their signatures, or at least that was what several new and very amateurish posters declared. George noted that Kelly’s portrait and the name “Worthington” had been painted over.

As the line moved along and they got closer to the tent, their moustachioed host finished his lecture, and lifted his face to the crowd to await the cheers. George was one of the first to call out. “Sir! Could you tell us of your research into this topic? The books you used as sources, the journeys you have taken, the scholars you have consulted? I, I myself am particularly fascinated by Ancient Egypt—I even wrote a novel, _The Curse of the Pharaohs!_ Perhaps you’ve read it?” He gestured expansively as he continued. “I researched it in great depth, and it was a most enjoyable experience. I was thinking my next novel might be on Atlantis. I, I should very much appreciate any guidance you might give me.” He fixed an eager expression on his face, and waited.

Axiosidou blanched a little as he glanced around. “Well, ah, I, ah, travel. Many place. I study Atlantis. You like my tent, yes?” He beamed at them, and waved at the displays.

George found himself wishing that Detective Watts were along. The man was a wizard with languages, and perhaps he could confirm whether Axiosidou’s accent was affected or genuine.

He glanced at Nina, who was smirking. He knew that look, and started to shake his head at her, but she winked. She began to speak to Axiosidou with words George did not recognize. The first word sounded like “yassas,” but he could not follow anything else.

He watched the exhibitor’s face as Nina spoke. He suspected that his own expression quite matched Axiosidou’s: a look of shocked incomprehension, but, as it turned out, for very different reasons.

Axiosidou sputtered, and his bafflement turned to alarm. He clearly had no idea how to respond. Meanwhile, George was once again amazed by his sweetheart. “You… you speak Greek?” he demanded.

“A few words and phrases,” Nina replied. “I studied classical Greek at Havergal, and our teacher gave us lessons about the modern language after school.”

George sputtered. “Hav—Havergal College? You attended Havergal College?”

She shrugged. “It never seemed the right time to tell you I was an Old Girl. But one thing I _do_ know is that this gentleman here is most certainly not Greek.”

_Right. Back to the matter at hand._

“Is he not, then?” The wheels started to turn for both George and Axiosidou, and the charlatan’s frozen smile fell away. George reached out to catch his arm.

“Mister Axiosidou, or whatever your name is. I’m Constable George Crabtree, of Station House Four, on temporary assignment to Station House Six. I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me to Station Six to answer some questions about a murder.”

The exhibitor’s expression turned to one of panic. His eyes darted around the booth as he looked for a way past the couple, but the crowd was too thick. He threw the bullhorn at George, narrowly missing his forehead, and started shoving people out of his way as he tried to flee.

 _Here we go_. “Nina! Summon the constables on patrol!” George shouted to her as he dashed after the man who had just all but confessed.

The fugitive was fast, and had no compunctions about injuring anyone who might stand in his way. He knocked over several ladies and a small child, who shrieked in distress as he elbowed his way past them. “Constabulary!” George shouted. “Stop that man! Make way for the Toronto Constabulary! Make way! And stop that man!”

While the adults in the throng looked around at each other uneasily, all wondering who would be the first to act, a lad of about twelve years dropped down into a low crouch, his head between his knees. Below Axiosidou’s line of sight, he made a most effective barrier. The fugitive tripped hard. He vaulted over him, landing in an awkward somersault, and George caught him by the elbow before he could regain his footing and run away.

“Right, then! You’re under arrest. You’re coming with me,” he shouted as he worked to pull the struggling man’s arms behind him, wishing he were in uniform so that he could obtain a pair of shackles from his belt. He scanned the crowd, and picked out a well-dressed young gentleman with an open face. He made direct eye contact, and called out to him. “Sir! Would you please use the public telephone to contact the Constabulary!“ He nodded earnestly, and started to elbow his way through the horde.

 _Right. Now if I can send him off to Station Six for an interview with Detective Bertram, perhaps Nina and I need not even leave the Exhibition grounds… although I suppose the detective won’t hear of it, given that I am the arresting officer… Alas_.

Only when he shot an apologetic look to Nina did he see her shaking her head in great distress. “George, look out! His hand!”

George looked down as he was told. Somehow, there was a knife. _A knife? Where did he get a knife?_

It hardly mattered now. Whatever its origin, there it was, and in a split second, it was at George’s throat.

The Earth juddered on its axis. George felt a familiar swell of fear.

Everything slowed down, and became brilliant and crisp. Nina in her elegant navy blue dress and lace wrap, staring in terror. Shocked faces everywhere. Squealing toddlers, cranky that the lineup was taking so long. _Why would anyone bring toddlers to such a display?_

The knife at his neck, the tip biting into his flesh. The lingering smell of popcorn and manure and pomade. The memory of Wu Chang teaching him how to rescue a captive hostage in such a situation. Bitter amusement that he’d no idea what to do when he himself was the hostage.

“You will all _move!_ ” bellowed his captor. Nina was right: the accent was fake. The man was clearly English, quite a toff if George could guess from the few words.

His first impulse was to negotiate. “Sir, I, I, I should be grateful if you would let me go. This… this is no sight for ladies or children. If, if you’ll just come quietly…”

“ _No!_ ” he thundered. George felt himself flinch as the man’s arm tightened around him.

Nina’s eyes were flame. Her apparent fear was gone, replaced with something sensual and almost wild. George recognized this look, too. He had seen it all over Paris. _Nina! What are you doing!_

She started to speak. “If you let him go, I can make it worth your while. Have you perchance heard of the Star Room, in the east end? The finest burlesque in North America, and I assure you, I am one of the club’s main attractions. I do know how to entertain a man. Just ask George.” She was practically purring.

George was horrified, and the crowd began to titter nervously. “Nina…” he began in warning.

She ignored him, staring hungrily at the man with the knife.

George looked skyward and drew a breath, then looked pleadingly at his beloved. “Nina, no. Please. Don’t do this. Just… just let me…”

The man who held George’s life in his hands began to cackle. “Is this your sweetheart, then? And who wears the trousers here, eh? Are you some sort of nancy boy? Your girl offering herself up like that, when I’ve not even killed you yet? She already trying to get in good with the better man?”

“Nina…” George’s voice cracked. _What was she up to?_

“Here, let me show you.” Nina’s voice was low as she leaned over and grasped the hem of her skirts. A gasp went through the crowd: just what kind of exhibition were they about to see?

George had nearly forgotten that they were surrounded: all his attention was quite focused on the blade at his throat, and on Nina. She looked more beautiful than ever. He felt a familiar stirring, followed by a swell of disgust. _Was… was this how it happened with Robert Graham? Was this how she nearly seduced him?_

Nina’s skirt came up almost far enough to reveal her ankle, and George’s heart nearly stopped. “ _Nina!_ ” he hissed. _“This isn’t Paris!”_

She winked at him again, and made her move.

A moment later, it was over.


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of the constables took their sweet time, and it was a relief when George finally saw them wading through the crowd. Each of them stopped short to gawk at the scene. “Axiosidou” lay whimpering on his side, hogtied with one of the tent ropes, the blade of a pearl-handled knife buried deep in his thigh. A burly, moustachioed man in a skimpy leopard-print leotard and tall Roman sandals loomed over him, as if daring him to try something. _Must be the strongman from the midway,_ George surmised as he sat on the overturned podium, Nina crouching next to him to hold a bloodied handkerchief to the side of his head. The crowd crackled with residual energy from the excitement they had just witnessed.

“Constable! Constable Crabtree! Are you all right?” one of the lads cried. George recognized him as one of the ones just back from sick leave.

“Wilson, is it? Yes, yes, I’m quite all right. It’s merely a scratch. Never mind me. Mind the crowd, then, will you? Get witness statements from those who were closest, and names and addresses for the rest, and get them out of here. And make sure the tent stays closed. This…” He gestured toward the whimpering figure on the ground. “This fellow will need an ambulance carriage, and once he’s been seen to at the hospital he’ll be straight off to the cells. Hop to it, lads, Detective Bertram will be along shortly. I, I have reason to believe this here is the man who murdered Mister Cornelius Smiley!”

The wounded man sighed loudly, and rolled his eyes. _Not even trying to deny it_ , George noted.

Wilson was stunned. “Are you sure?”

“Well an innocent man doesn’t hold a police constable at knifepoint, now does he?” The words tumbled out too quickly, George still riding the last of the flood of adrenaline. “Wilson, would you be so kind as to untie this man and shackle him? I, I’m not on duty at the moment.”

“And he’s bleeding,” Nina added.

George nodded in earnest, accidentally stretching the skin and reopening the wound. “ _Ow._ I suppose I am.”

“And you’ve just made it worse!” she scolded. “Head wounds always bleed terribly. Hold _still_ , George.”

Wilson complied with George’s request, a little too reluctantly to George’s mind, and knelt down to shackle the man’s wrists before untying him and sitting him up. “ _I’m_ bleeding!” the man screeched as his legs were freed. “I have a knife in my leg! That girl threw a knife at me! Arrest her!”

Nina smiled in disbelief. “As I recall, _you_ were holding a knife to this gentleman’s neck. A gentleman who is in fact an officer of the law. You may have gathered that he is also my sweetheart. Had the cut been any deeper, I can assure you that my knife would be buried somewhere far more painful and dangerous for you.”

“Remind me never to cross you,” George whispered to her, with a quick half smile.

“I demand you release me at once!” interrupted the disheveled man, who by now was sitting on the fallen podium next to George. “Why on Earth would I kill that man Smiley? I’d never laid eyes on him before!”

George pondered for only a moment before he snapped his fingers. “The tent,” he declared. “You wanted the tent. You wanted to be the exhibitor. You, you murdered Mister Smiley and framed Mister Kelly so that you could have both of them out of the way. That way you could combine the two displays to take them both over, so you could keep all the profits for yourself! I, I mean, given the recent explosion of interest in the Kingdom of Atlantis, this must certainly be a lucrative venue!”

The man scoffed, and winced, clutching his thigh. “Is this what passes for a police investigation these days? You’ve got it all wrong!”

George tilted his head. _Ow. I ought to stop doing that_. “All right, then, what’s _your_ version of the story, Mister Axiosidou? What _is_ your name, for that matter?”

“My name, if you must know, is Zachariah Worthington.”

_Zachariah Worthington._

Kelly’s alias! 

“You’re Zachariah Worthington? But… but you’re in England! Michael Kelly used your name because you’re in England!”

Axios— _Worthington_ —rolled his eyes. “How could you possibly think I was unaware? I am here, in this, this colonial _hinterland_ , precisely _because_ that rat was impersonating me, you knothead!”

 _Well_. This did put a different view on things. George tried to look sideways at Worthington, but Nina firmly grasped his chin and held it still. “George. Stop moving your head. You’re just going to keep bleeding. Look, your handkerchief is almost soaked through. I’ll need another soon. Now _stop moving._ I’ll hold you in place if I must.”

“Who wears the trousers here indeed!” sniped Worthington, and the lads snickered.

“All right, Nina, all right, just please let go.” He kept his voice as low as he could, and closed his eyes, grateful that he could not see the lads’ faces. It was just as well he was through with Station House Six: otherwise, he would never hear the end of it. Nina was right, of course, and he wished to humour her, albeit quietly. He decided to deflect attention back to the angry toff next to him. He could almost see him in his peripheral vision. The cut on his head was starting to throb.

“Kelly? You knew him?” George pried. “Before all this with the tent, I mean. If, if he was using your name and waving supposedly English credentials about, he must have known you, right?”

Worthington straightened, defiant. ”I suppose we may have made each other’s acquaintance at some juncture in the past. I have had many of his class in my employ as drivers and gardeners and other such outdoor staff. I can hardly be expected to remember every one of them, now can I?”

George bristled. _What a detestable man. Although best to humour him until he signs the confession, I suppose…_

The conversation was interrupted by the simultaneous arrival of the ambulance carriage and Detective Bertram. One of the medical residents attending the ambulance tended to Worthington, and George tried to report to the detective around the ministrations of the other. The young man, an earnest sort, determined he needed to be transported to the hospital for stitches. He reluctantly acquiesced: he did have to admit the side of his head was bleeding rather profusely.

Bertram listened as attentively as he could to George’s report, while trying his best not to look positively queasy at the sight of all the blood. He assured George he would arrange for Station House Four to expect him back no earlier than Thursday, and would make sure that his uniform went back there with Constable Higgins. Finally the ambulance attendant chased him off, and George found himself reclining on a stretcher, a thick pad of gauze pressed to the side of his head, just behind his ear.

He wished not at all to contemplate what might have been had Nina not distracted Worthington by flinging a knife into his thigh. _She flung a knife into his thigh! She keeps a knife in a sheath at her ankle!_

Well, he had known she carried a knife, but still. This one, with its pearl handle, was far more elegant than the one he had once seen strapped to _her_ thigh, and this one had saved his life. With her precise throw, she had given him a chance to break free from Worthington’s grasp. Yes, he was bleeding, but on the other hand, he was bleeding. Corpses did not bleed.

George felt a bit silly being loaded into the ambulance carriage when he was still perfectly, well, ambulatory, but the residents were insistent. He watched as Worthington was brought in flat on his back. One of the residents remained with them in the tiny space, while the other went to the front to sit with the driver. Another constable, only vaguely familiar to George, climbed in to guard the suspect. The constable nodded in greeting, but said nothing. Nina called out that she would see George at the hospital. The doors closed behind them, and the carriage took them away.

It was, as always, a bumpy ride. The other constable, a John Foster, was a reserved sort, who said very little, all but disappearing into the shadows at the front of the carriage. Worthington, however, complained so much of the pain in his leg that the resident riding with them administered a syringe of heroin just to quiet him. Instead, it had the opposite effect: it made him drowsy and relaxed, and quite loosened his tongue, much to the medic’s chagrin.

George, however, was only too happy to engage the suspect in conversation, especially if he could turn the topic away from Nina’s knife and toward the subject of Smiley’s murder. If he could get a definitive confession out of Worthington, in front of a witness, the case was _entirely_ settled this time, and the right man off to the gallows. And the sooner a confession came, the sooner he could bathe, and don clean clothes from his own wardrobe.

He adjusted his hand against the bloody handkerchiefs and gauze on his head. His arm was already starting to tire. “Right. Mister Worthington. Since you appear to be feeling somewhat better, perhaps you might like to explain how you knew Mister Kelly, as I’m _quite_ certain he was more to you than an employee, and I should like to know why you might wish him ill.”

“ _Kelly._ ” Worthington smiled an awful grin. Any semblance of indignant guile had vanished into a drug-induced haze. “ _Michael Kelly._ Three years ago my poor, dear mother, having just lost her husband of fifty-six years, was given this positively _ludicrous_ book about the supposed Atlantean diaspora, by a particularly odd acquaintance who had purchased it from a street vendor in Toronto. Why he thought it worth bringing all the way home to London, let alone sharing it with someone else, is quite beyond me. And it was _dreadful_. All wild speculation, no evidence whatsoever. Just poppycock. But It was all my dear mother could speak about for months. She read it again and again, and spoke of nothing but how much she wished to see all these monuments for herself.” Worthington scoffed, and snickered.

“But I don’t suppose she did,” George prompted.

“Oh, heavens, no. She was far too frail to travel. She asked me to go on her behalf, and write her detailed letters each day, but of course I refused have any part in such a ridiculous endeavour. Why on Earth should anyone choose to visit such filthy, uncivilised places? A godforsaken backwater of a colony such as _this_ is bad enough. Of course I refused! And so she found the address of this Kelly, in Toronto, and struck up a correspondence about the supposed Atlantean origins of the Pyramids and so forth.”

“And let me guess: she financed his expeditions.”

“Of course she did! She wired him her entire fortune. All of it! There was not even enough left for the upkeep of the house! We found ourselves unable to pay the servants! He told her all these wild stories about Atlantis, and the Pyramids, and she ate it all with a spoon. We were absolutely mortified!”

Worthington shifted, and hardly winced. “And worse yet, he chose to travel under _my name_. My good name! Ruined! And my inheritance spent on his pointless expeditions to vandalise priceless bits of history!”

The rest of the pieces clicked into place. George always savoured such a moment.

“Mister Worthington. You, you mistook Smiley for your mother’s protégé! You saw someone snooping in the Worthington booth in the wee hours, and you thought he was the man who destroyed your reputation and claimed your family's fortune. And so you shot him.”

Worthington giggled. “And so… I… shot him. But then it wasn’t he. It was someone else, in his booth. And so I decided to…” he trailed off, and snickered again.

“You decided what? You decided to frame Michael Kelly? Try to make it look like he killed Smiley?”

“Yes! You’re a clever one, aren’t you? Yes, that is exactly what I decided. I did think it a brilliant idea! Kelly was nowhere to be found, and a man lay dead in his booth by my hand, and what better way to deflect suspicion from myself than to direct it toward another? And then I could let him die at the hands of the law! Ah, poetry! _Justice!_ ”

“I should hardly think so,” George muttered, and shook his head in disgust. He regretted the movement immediately as another gush of warm blood seeped through the gauze onto his fingers. _I am not lightheaded,_ he told himself, silently grateful that he was already sitting down.

He must have looked peaked enough that the medical resident scuttled over with more gauze to press to George’s head, and relieved George of the duty of holding any of it in place. George brought his hand back down to the stretcher, and closed his eyes. He was frustrated: he had the confession he needed. Now if he could only write it all down while it was still fresh in his mind…

The time spent at the hospital was mercifully brief, as the nurses were alarmed enough by the amount of blood covering George that they made certain he was seen to at once. A surgeon applied a solution of cocaine to the wound as a local anaesthetic, and irrigated it before he stitched it up (neatly, Nina assured him later). A older nurse with a pleasant face insisted he take a small dose of laudanum, drink a great deal of sugared tea, eat several biscuits, and assure her that he would have someone nearby for the night, before she would allow him to leave. She pressed a bottle of Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills for Pale People into his hands, instructing him to take two of them three times a day, with or after meals, so that he might ward off any anaemia from the blood loss.[i]

The other constable— _Foster_ , George finally recalled—was waiting next to a gurney bearing a groggy Worthington. The knife no longer protruded from the man’s leg, and he was likely off to recover on the ward for a night before he was moved to the cells. George was elated to learn that Foster had taken extensive notes of the confession, and secured the name and address of the resident from the ambulance, in the event his testimony was needed. Competence from an unexpected source meant George’s work was done, and he was grateful.

He was concerned about the state of his suit. He hoped it wasn’t ruined. He particularly liked this one that his aunt had sewn for him, regardless of what those nasty snobs at the sports club thought of it. Perhaps he could ask Doctor Ogden, given her knowledge of chemistry, about removing bloodstains from fabric. Nina had been most generous throughout the Paris trip, but his bank account had still not recovered from his absence from work, and now was hardly the time for a visit to the tailor for a new suit… and then there was the matter of travelling home on the streetcar with blood-soaked clothing and a bandaged head…

True to her word, Nina was waiting for him when he emerged from the emergency department. He need not have worried about the trip home: Nina had hired another taxicab. She spirited him away in the private carriage, and he dozed on her shoulder all the way to her rooms.

* * *

George sat soaking in the deep bathtub, luxuriating in the hot, bubbly, jasmine-scented water even as he wished for some of his aunt’s Lavender Silk bath oil. Jasmine was lovely, yes, but he always found the lavender more relaxing, and it had been a trying day. A trying week, for that matter.

The last light of the day streamed in through the frosted window. He was lost in thought, trying to understand the change in Nina’s demeanour since she had awakened him in the taxicab. Her touch, usually teasing and coy, had turned tentative, even aloof. She had used a single hand on his elbow to shepherd him through the doors and into her bedroom, seating him on the bed before she disappeared to fill the tub while he undressed himself.

Once he was unclothed, he had ambled after Nina into the bath room, finding her pouring hot water from the kettle onto soap flakes in an enamel basin. She gestured him toward a low stool, a towel draped over it, and he sat down. She looked away from him, embarrassed, as she worked the soapy water into a lather and dipped a cloth into it. He looked down at his shoulder, and realised that most of the left side of his upper half was coated in blood. As soon as he saw it he was instantly aware of the tightness of it on his skin. And there was so much of it. No wonder he had felt lightheaded.

Nina had worked in silence, scrubbing gently at the dried blood on his back, and his shoulder, and his arm and his chest. She wrung the cloth out in the basin every few swipes. By the time she was finished, the water was crimson. She stood him up, and led him to the bath. After he was in the water, she took her leave and closed the door.

He had been surprised to feel relief when the door clicked shut. He was still muzzy from the laudanum, and for the first time, he was self-conscious about being naked in Nina’s presence. His head wound—indeed, his entire head—throbbed against the too-tight bandage. The brief rush from the cocaine was long gone, and he was always drained after the sort of confrontation he’d faced today. He thought he might close his eyes for a moment.

A knock jerked him awake. He caught a glimpse of his wrinkled fingertips: he must have been asleep for quite some time. Indeed, all the bubbles were gone, and the water was cold. Nina called to him, and he invited her in.

She was still in her chemise and corset and knickerbockers, and she held a towel and one of her silk dressing gowns. He gratefully accepted the first, climbing out of the tub and drying himself off, and he was surprised by the second: she had never asked, tacitly or otherwise, for him to cover himself in her presence before. He slid the dressing gown on, finding it almost comically short even as he appreciated the feeling of the silk on his skin. _What is amiss? Was it something I said?_ Perhaps Doctor Ogden could offer counsel in the morning. He lacked the wherewithal at the moment to ask Nina about it himself.

She led him to the bedroom, as she had done so many times before, but this time her manner was not at all seductive. She helped him loosen his bandage, and he helped her unlace her corset before she sent him to bed. He looked to her curiously as he began to take off the dressing gown—he did not wish to sleep in it—and she nodded reluctantly before looking away once more.

George took off the gown and hung it over the chair next to the bed. The clock on the mantel read only 7:30pm, and there was still a hint of light in the sky. He climbed under the covers, exhausted, quite unable to stay awake for more than a moment after he laid his head on the pillow.

* * *

[i] I did not make these up. They have a Wikipedia entry. Apparently they were full of iron.


	8. Chapter 8

**Monday, September 4, 1905, 88 Maitland Street**

George awakened alone, sun streaming through the curtains. He rolled onto his back, gingerly poking at his bandaged head to find no fresh blood had seeped through. He smiled. He was safe and as well as could be expected, and a killer was behind bars. Things could be far worse.

He lay there for some time, contemplating Nina’s elegant décor and wondering where she had gotten to. Had she even slept in the bed with him? It did not appear that she had. He would have felt remarkably cheerful but for a lingering soreness around his wound, and the growing sense that things were not right between him and his sweetheart.

After a time he sat up carefully, and saw a note addressed to him on the dressing table. His heart sank as he recalled the last time he had received a similar-looking missive. _She’s not throwing me over again, is she?_ Oh, how awkward this might become. Here he was in her rooms, without any clothing save that ruined by bloodstains…

He supposed he ought to read the note before he let his imagination get the better of him. Still self-conscious, he wrapped a sheet around himself before he climbed out of the bed and picked up the note. Nina wrote in such an attractive, distinctive hand.

_My dearest George,_

_I trust you slept well, and hope you will awaken refreshed. I am glad to report that you did not stir from the time that I came to bed until I arose this morning. It certainly appeared that you were in need of rest._

_Please enjoy the pastries from the bakery around the corner. You will find them on the table next to the icebox. Alas, they are not French, but I suppose we must make do with what is available here until we can return to Paris someday, n’est-ce pas?_

_I have taken the liberty of delivering your clothing to Doctor Ogden in hopes that she is able to restore it to utility, or that she is at least acquainted with someone of such expertise. In the meantime I will report on your injury to Inspector Brackenreid, and request Henry’s assistance in retrieving some clean garments for you from your room so that you may remain here for a few days. (I should think your Miss Pratt would not welcome me into her home, and it is likely wise for someone to keep an eye on you.)_

_I shall return shortly._

_Until then,_

_I remain your dear devoted Nina._

A knot inside his chest let go, as the deep sense of dread of being thrown over again evaporated into hot curiosity about what had got into her last night. Something had clearly been wrong, but he had no idea what.

 _Inspector Brackenreid._ _Oh, Lord._ He glanced at the clock, and a different kind of panic set in. _Half past nine!_ He hoped past hope that Detective Bertram had made good on his word, as it would not do at all for him to be more than an hour late to work on his first day back.

He channeled the panic into analysis. He needed a strategy. Perhaps he could telephone his landlady to learn whether he had received any messages. This way he could gird himself against an angry Brackenreid, or relax in the knowledge that he had nowhere to be. He drew a deep breath, and telephoned Miss Pratt.

The conversation was uncomfortable but informative. Miss Pratt was sceptical that his frequent overnight absences were _all_ due to late shifts at the Constabulary, particularly since he did not return during the day. He assured her, as smoothly as he could, that criminals did not sleep, and he could practically hear her scowl. He asked her to allow access to his room by a constable who would be by presently to retrieve a suit, a pair of shirts, and some union suits and socks. She supposed she would, but she did not sound pleased. Finally, she read him a message from the inspector himself.

It was true: he was not expected at any station house until Thursday morning. His hand came up to the back of his head as he grinned, telling Miss Pratt to expect him for Thursday dinner. She sniffed before she rang off, and George waited to make sure the connection was broken before he laughed. Bless Miss Pratt. He knew she would have an entire bundle of his clothes and toiletries packed and waiting nearly as soon as she had put down the telephone, and some of his favourites would be on the table Thursday night. For all her bluster, she was quite fond of him.

Not knowing what else to do with himself, he went to the table, still wrapped in the sheet, and sat down for some pastries. It was not long before he heard Nina at the door, and he hastily retreated to the bedchamber so as not to be seen by anyone in the hall.

“It’s quite all right, George,” Nina greeted him brightly, flinching a little at the sight of him. “I’m glad to see you up. Did you enjoy the pastries? I’ve something for you.” Her manner was still unfamiliar, detached. She spoke too quickly, and her smile was too cheery as she laid his leather satchel and a canvas sack on the table. “Your uniform and helmet, and clothes for the next few days. And I’ve even brought cheese and apples and smoked trout, and a loaf of bread, and some pâté and dried figs and dates. I thought we might have a picnic, like we did that night on the Pont des Arts. I still have some of that wonderful pinot noir...”

“Why, that’s a lovely idea, Nina!” He placed an elbow on the table, leaned against it, and smiled. “I, I would very much enjoy a bit of Paris here in Toronto.”

“It’s a shame there are no other couples here to share bottles of wine or dance to a busker playing the accordion.” She finally smiled back. _There. There it was. That smile._ He was relieved, until the smile faded abruptly and her expression once again became solemn.

“Nina.” He took her hand, and gestured her toward a chair. “Are you quite all right?”

“Of course, George. Why would you think otherwise?” Her gaze grew distant as she withdrew her hand. “You are the one who merits worry! I shouldn’t wish to think about how differently things could have turned out last night.”

“Nina. There’s no need to contemplate such awfulness. I’m here, I’m safe, I’m all right. And I, I’ve you here to look after me.”

She looked at him, directly this time, and reached tentatively toward his bandaged head. “That’s just it, George. I’ve hardly looked after you at all.”

“What?” He was baffled. “You, you bathed me last night! You’ve fed me, you’ve retrieved my clothes, you’ve… you’ve…” He trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

“I did the bare minimum”—her eyes flicked up and down him in the sheet, and George only just suppressed a smile—“and…” She shifted, deeply uncomfortable. “George, I’m not… I’m not at all suited to looking after other people. I’ve spent so much of my career setting limits with men who want me to look after them that I’m not… well, nurturing does not come easily to me. That night with you in the hospital after you were drugged… I’d no idea what to do for you. The nurses asked if I wished to hold your hand, or wipe your brow, and I… I just couldn’t. And I knew you would wish to stay with me the next night, and I just… I needed to be alone. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you asleep again so soon, after all those hours when I couldn’t wake you.”

She swallowed. “And… last night, George. There was so much _blood_. It was all I could see, all over you, all over me, even after I’d washed it all away.” She looked down, ashamed, as she absently ran her fingers over the faint scar on her own neck. “I’m sorry, George. I’m so sorry.” Her eyes welled up with tears.

He caught her hand and drew her close, hardly caring as he lost his grip on the sheet and let it fall to the floor. “Nina,” he whispered. “It’s all right, Nina. You’ve… you’ve no need to be sorry. I’m here, and I’m safe, and Robert Graham is behind bars for holding you hostage, and Mister Zachariah Worthington? He will certainly hang.” He kissed the top of her head, and buried his face in her hair.

He heard and felt a muffled sob.

“It’s all right, Nina. It’s all right. I’m here.”

George never quite finished getting dressed that day. For a time it was as if they were back on the S. S. _St. Louis_ to Paris, or the _Sardinian_ toward home, except that the quarters were far more spacious and stationary, and no one would ring a bell to summon them for meals. Their time was entirely their own.

The lack of movement struck him. There was no gentle rolling of the decks, no jerking of the train, no walking for hours and hours and miles. He felt that he had not stopped moving since well before they had left for Paris, and he was glad for the pause before he went back to his regular beat.

He and Nina lazed about her rooms, setting out the picnic on a blanket on the floor. They feasted, and sipped the wine, and after a time she took him to bed. They spent the rest of the day entwined in the sheets and each other. Neither was in a playful mood; instead, George lay on his back with Nina’s head nestled into his chest, and they simply held each other.

Their conversation was sporadic, as both were mostly lost in thought. Now and then one of them would speak, and time would pass before the other would respond. George, pondering the events that had led to his injury, asked Nina where on Earth she had learned to throw a knife so well. She giggled, recounting how she and Sam would toss his penknife at a board in an alley behind their house again and again when they got home from school. Apparently her aim grew so accurate that the neighbourhood bullies, never knowing whether her elegant dress concealed a weapon, left both her and Samuel alone.

George laughed, trying to imagine a tiny Nina in skirts and petticoats flinging knives as her brother cheered her on and the bullies scurried away. As the sun set, they sat down to more of the bread and cheese and dried fruit, and finished the wine. Nina slid the bandage off George’s head to find the stitched wound healing nicely. They cleared the table, and washed up the few dishes, and played a game of chess. Finally they lay down on the plush rug before the fireplace, and took their time to explore each other’s bodies, scars and all, before they made slow, cautious love as the last of the day’s light faded from the sky.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thursday, September 7, 1905, Station House No. 4, 8:00am**

“George! Welcome back!” Murdoch’s greeting was even warmer than that on George’s first day back from Paris. George was impressed by his excellent humour.

“Why, thank you kindly, sir!” The two men shook hands firmly and beamed at each other. “I must say it’s good to be back at my own station house. I, I’d have returned earlier this week, but I suppose you’ve heard what happened.” He took off his helmet and angled his healing wound toward the detective.

Murdoch looked at it obligingly for a moment and winced before George straightened up. “I’m afraid I have, George. It seems Miss Bloom delivered your blood-soaked clothing to Julia, in hopes she could salvage it somehow. I trust you yourself are well after your unpleasant encounter?”

“I am indeed, sir! Might you know whether Doctor Ogden has had any success with my suit? I’m quite partial to that one. My aunt made it for me, you know.”

“I remember, George. I believe Julia may have done! She also mentioned she wished to speak with me at the morgue about a corpse that came in overnight—would you care to join me?”

“Don’t mind if I do, sir!”

George, glad to be back in the detective’s company, was eager to describe his past week. Murdoch and eventually Doctor Ogden listened patiently to George’s report on the details of Worthington’s ridiculous theories, Smiley’s murder, the investigation, the arrests of the Kellys, his success in the altercation with Worthington on the Exhibition Grounds, and the still precarious state of the leadership at Station House Six. Bertram had been kind to him, yes, but Bertram had also been willing to let an innocent man hang.

Murdoch agreed that George had made quite an impression there. Inspector Brackenreid had heard repeatedly how fortunate he was to have such an intrepid man among his constables, and how indebted he would be if only they would send Crabtree back. The inspector declined the offer, Murdoch assured him, and George’s position at Station Four was secure.

George was right chuffed, as the inspector might say. He continued to burble as he and Murdoch paused in the alleyway between the morgue and the station house. “And sir, I’m pleased to tell you that after days and days of the torment of being present at the Exhibition but unable to savour nearly all of its delights, once everything calmed down Miss Bloom and I had a lovely couple of days there indeed. Did you know, sir, that there was a 20th Century Can Opener being given away? Free, sir!”

“Is that so, George.” Murdoch was regarding him with indulgent amusement.

“It was, sir! I managed to obtain one. Quite an ingenious little tool! I shouldn't think it could complete with one of your gadgets, though. And there’s so much there that you and Doctor Ogden would surely enjoy! The, the enormous vegetables! Good heavens, sir, the size of the prizewinning pumpkin this year! It was… _enormous!_ And, and the transportation displays! The types of engines they’re working on these days, sir! Dare I say you’d be right at home! And all the inventions in the Manufacturers’ Building. Sir, they were marvellous. Really, don’t miss it, sir. And Doctor Ogden would be particularly taken by the new art gallery! And, and my goodness, sir, Nina and I certainly enjoyed the displays and games on the midway—quite a carnival atmosphere, I must say—and the rides! And the music! The Royal Irish Guards were there to give two concerts a day! By permission of His Majesty himself!”[i]

They arrived at the station house door, George still chattering away as they entered. “Oh, oh, and sir! The _fireworks_. They were _spectacular._ And by going back for a second day we had time to stand in the long lines for the sulky races at the grandstand! It was quite thrilling, sir. Horses drawing men at such a speed, in those light little open carts! I should think that a terrifying pursuit.” He chuckled at his own unintentional joke, and paused for breath while he waited for Murdoch to chide him gently as usual. The man just grinned.

“We did indeed manage to visit the Exhibition while you were away, George. We were there on the first day, in fact. Quite a lot of pageantry. His Royal Highness Prince Louis of Battenburg opened the gates.”[ii]

George sputtered. “Well sir, why didn’t you tell me? Just letting me go on like that when you’ve already been…”

“It’s all right, George. I don’t mind.” Murdoch smiled again. George thought he had not seen the detective in this fine a humour since his wedding day.

George’s wonderings were interrupted by a bark from the inspector. “Crabtree! My office!” Murdoch nodded at George, who frowned before he did as he was told.

Brackenreid sat scowling, and George shifted uneasily. “I trust you’re well, sir? Peace at home?” He wondered whether his sister-in-law’s dog was still vexing him.

“Well that sodding dog is gone, if that’s what you mean. I told Margaret that if the dog didn’t leave, I would. Only thing that got her attention was when the damn thing smashed an old glass bowl while I was packing a case. Terrible animal.” He shuddered. “But as for you, Bugalugs. How are you faring? I had understood you were incapacitated by a head injury, and now I hear you were skiving off at the Exhibition for days at a time? Attending _sulky races_ , of all the ridiculous things?”

George started to stammer. “Sir, I, I, I…”

“Asshole gazers, those lads! Driving those preposterous contraptions!”[iii]

George was taken aback. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Sitting right behind those horses, staring at their arses! Where’s the sport in that?”

“Well, sir, some might argue that, I suppose,” George replied. He lowered his voice and glanced around. “But I dare say I’ve no complaints about the payoff for choosing the winner.”

Brackenreid’s demeanour changed in an instant. The scowl became an intrigued grin, and he leaned toward Crabtree as he took in his meaning. “Is that so, me ol’ mucker. You’ve won some money?”

“Some, sir. I’ve put most of it in the bank, to add to my savings for a house.”

Brackenreid’s smile grew wider, but a warning appeared behind it. “A house, then? For you and Miss Bloom? As much as all that, then?”

“If she’ll have me, sir.” Brackenreid’s eyebrows rose. “And it’s not as much as all that, but every little bit helps.” George did not wish another discussion of Miss Bloom’s suitability as a wife. He cleared his throat. “But in the meantime, I did use some of the proceeds to bring you something.” He reached into his satchel to withdraw a bottle, and presented it to the inspector.

Brackenreid’s face lit up. “Rye whisky! Not scotch, but I’ll take it.”

“It’s an award winner, sir! Hiram Walker’s Club Whisky, distilled in Walkerville, Ontario! Just outside Windsor. I thought you might appreciate it.”

“Not from Mister Gooderham down the street, then?”

“No, sir. I thought I might procure you something from out of town.” He paused as Brackenreid admired the label and nodded in thanks. “I’ll just get to work, then.”

“Right you are, Crabtree. Welcome back.”

 _That went better than it might have,_ George congratulated himself silently as he headed to his desk.

* * *

Despite the marvellous time he had had in Paris, and at the Exhibition once he was able to enjoy it properly, he was glad to be back in familiar surroundings. He had missed his typewriters, both the one at work and the one at home, and the dull hum of conversation in the bullpen, and the occasional glug of the water cooler, and the general ambience of Station House Four. It was home.

He finally had a chance to distribute the gifts he had bought for everyone in Paris, and all of them save one were warmly received. Detective Murdoch’s eyes lit up at the first edition of Henri Poincaré’s _La Science et l'Hypothèse_ , while Doctor Ogden said several times how delighted she was to receive the beautiful combs that Nina had helped choose. The inspector was glad for the silk cravat and pocket square, knowing Margaret would be pleased that he could look posh at whatever important event they might next attend. Watts was thrilled by the bottle of wine, and invited George to enjoy it with him once it aged properly, in a decade or so.

The lads received their gifts after the inspector was gone for the afternoon: postcard prints of private boudoir portraits of the regular performers at the Moulin Rouge. The dancers passed them out as souvenirs to men they considered worthy of their interest, and George had received so many that Nina suggested he pass most of them along.

Everyone was thrilled by the gift except Higgins, who became quite indignant. Didn’t George know that Henry was courting Miss Newsome now? What if she saw him looking at such smut? George’s mouth opened and closed a few times as he recalled all the off-colour jokes and dirty pictures that Higgins relished so much, and he turned on his heel and walked away without saying a word. _Very well then, more postcards for me. Nina won’t mind._

George rifled through the stack of files and correspondence on his desk. It was shorter than he had feared, and he was optimistic that he could handle it all quickly, and get back outside onto patrol. He had missed the neighbourhood.

An envelope addressed to him caught his eye. He sighed as he recognized the monogram: an ornate L. C., both printed on the stationery itself and embossed into the wax seal on the back. The letter bore a faint scent of bergamot. He noted the words “URGENT: PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL” in Louise Cherry’s rather masculine hand. He grimaced, hoping the missive had not caused too much of a stir among the lads when it arrived.

He opened a file folder and stood it vertically on his desk. Behind it, he slit the top of the envelope with a letter opener, and drew out the contents, concealing the letter as best he could.

_George,_

_I believe I should inform you that I have come into possession of a piece of your work that I am quite certain was not meant for any eyes save those of your current sweetheart. I am in receipt of a small and elegantly printed volume bearing unmistakable hallmarks of your work. (Might I admire your skill in writing in such a genre, by the way, despite finding the material quite distasteful.)_

_I trust you have not forgotten your obligations under our agreement, to continue to allow the_ Telegraph _to print the Verbiceanu columns as the publisher sees fit, and to refrain from making any public statement whatsoever as to their original authorship. I understand that this agreement has already put you in an awkward position, given your profession and the recent spate of deaths apparently linked to the columns. I should therefore like to return the volume to you as soon as circumstances allow, in order to avoid any further inconvenience to you._

_Might I humbly suggest we meet at your earliest convenience to discuss these urgent matters?_

_I shall await your reply._

_Remaining yours very truly,_

_L. C._

George was utterly, completely mortified. He hastily folded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope, hoping past hope that no one had seen the blood drain from his face as he read it. He knew immediately what she meant: he had, over a few nights on the _Sardinian_ towards home after Nina had gone to sleep, written some playful and extremely racy accounts of their time in Paris. He had taken them to a discreet friend of many years, a printer he trusted, to prepare a single copy for Nina for Christmas.

Nothing made sense. _How does Louise have what I wrote for Nina? Has someone burgled my room?_ It felt as if whatever blood was left in his head was headed straight to his ears, and he hoped nobody noticed them flush.

“George? Are you all right?”

_Higgins. Damn it._

“I’m fine, Higgins.” He would never admit, especially not to Henry Higgins of all people, the reason for his fretting. As he shook his head, he caught a glance of the contents of the folder he was using to conceal the letter, and his heart sank even lower.

The folder was labelled “TELEGRAPH COLUMNS” in the detective’s neat hand. Inside were clippings of all of George’s—"Verbiceanu’s”—columns from the _Telegraph_ , as well as a note: “George, see me. WM.”

_Oh, no. Oh, Lord. No. I can’t possibly explain all of this to him._

_Think fast, George._

His body felt like lead. He willed himself to pick up the folder, feeling a cramp in his stomach. He drew a deep breath before he rose to proceed toward Detective Murdoch’s office.

* * *

[i] [Letter of invitation to attend CNE](https://www.torontopubliclibrary.ca/detail.jsp?Entt=RDMDC-1905-EXHIBITION-SB&R=DC-1905-EXHIBITION-SB), 1905.

[ii] [H.R.H. Prince Louis of Battenberg at the opening of The Canadian National Exhibition, Toronto](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:H.R.H._Prince_Louis_of_Battenberg_at_the_opening_of_The_Canadian_National_Exhibition,_Toronto.jpg). Prince Louis was Prince Philip’s grandfather.

[iii] Thanks to the late Capt. R. A. Stevenson, a Yorkshireman who lived much of his life in St. Catharines, Ontario, for the expression “asshole gazers.”


End file.
